


I Don't F*cking Care

by AlixxBlack



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other, Song Inspired, Song fic, anti-agatha, i don't fucking care, i don't fucking care by blackbear, moderate swearing, unable to tag all things because it gives away the pace of the story, very mild sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 23:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11241969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlixxBlack/pseuds/AlixxBlack
Summary: Summary:This fanfiction depicts the struggles that Simon Snow and Baz Grimm-Pitch experience in their relationship that starts with them being enemies, how their timing is never quite right, and big life changes that force them to reassess what truly matters when it comes to their love for each other.Disclaimer:(1) As it has become a complaint that my fanfiction does not follow every single cannon of the work "Carry On" written by Rainbow Rowell, I suppose it is now important to disclose deviations. (If this sounds salty, I am salty because fanfiction exists specifically to deviate from the cannon in some way or another). So, consider this your warning - this fanfiction DOES DEVIATE from assumed and confirmed cannon details of the original works.(2) This fanfiction does not make positive light of Agatha Wellbelove. There is a point in time where Agatha somewhat sexually harasses Baz in the story. It is not graphic and there is no resulting physical assault from these events.(3) I am not writing this fanfiction for any profit. I do not retain creative rights for the original content of "Carry On" by Rainbow Rowell, nor the song performed by Blackbear titled "I Don't F*cking Care.'





	I Don't F*cking Care

**I don’t fucking care.**

 

**_“Tell me pretty lies,_ **

**_Look me in the face.”_ **

**_\--Baz_ **

 

 

Watching him leave the room again with Agatha is about as painful as any other time she’s came in giggling, while sneaking guilty peaks at me. Though nobody knows it, she’s been making conversation for weeks with me when I’m in the library. She deliberately sits close to me, putting on floral lotion before working through several pages of meticulously organized notes. I only notice these things because she reaches down to hike up her skirt before fanning herself with those same pages, pretending to be sweating when she’s really freezing in the window seat she always chooses. A snarl pretends to climb up my throat but instead it recedes back into my imagination.

 

What happens instead a faked laugh that others have come to accept as legitimate whenever Simons Snow is the topic of discussion; “What a mess.” And is it not? Simon is hopelessly in love with a girl who is as committed to him as she is her own magic, which on most days is good but lazy. I’ve heard him mumble in his sleep potential wedding vows for her, unconsciously planning his future life with her as his wife.

 

As genuine as I’m sure he feels I am not convinced that Simon loves her. I’ve said it before and I use it to justify the opinion I’ve developed: _he is_ _the worst chosen one that’s ever been chosen._ Simon can’t figure out things that are directly in front of him. I think this truth is what makes the entire predicament that much worse.

 

“I just want you to see it, you bloody scone with legs.” I grumble as I crumble under the pressure of seeing his unmade bed. Since first year I’ve been making his bed and unmaking it, to satiate a primal desire to be close to him. At first, it was the perceived closeness that I needed to destroy him and all the glory that came with his blasted name. Eventually I discovered that my hate was merely a guise for these feelings that I cannot even share with anyone, not even Niall or Dev.

 

The truth is what I really wanted was much simpler than sabotage. I just want him: _Simon Snow Salisbury._

 

I just want him to see that I love him, and I want him to leave Agatha, and I want him to feel the exact same way that I’ve been feeling for years. Those are selfish desires, but they are my desires nonetheless. Even if I don’t get all of those things, some of them would do just fine. One of those revelations on Simon’s part would be enough for me. Anything more than what I have now would be enough.

 

Simon doesn’t return until a few hours later, and he seems different somehow. I can’t put my finger on it exactly but I don’t bully him to find out for sure. Tonight I can tell in the way my skin tingles when I see him in my peripherals that I’ll end up in the bathroom biting through a towel until my arousal subsides. So I keep my mouth shut and pretend I’m studying for an exam. I don’t remember which book I’m holding when Simon asks me; “Was there a reading assignment?”

 

Per the usual, Simon doesn’t know what is going on with his academics. He does well enough, but I know it is mostly because Penelope Bunce carries his weight. Never in a million years would she do his work but she would never let him fail either. In very many ways she is an admirable person – exactly the kind of person that I aspire to be to others. Depending on who is being asked depends on whether or not they would agree I’m achieving this goal.

 

For example, Simon Snow wouldn’t liken me to Penelope Bunce in any way other than that we’re both scholars at heart.

 

To pretend that he is wrong to be upset with me would make me a liar, though I am a liar every single day that I pretend to hate him. Not to mention, I’ve done some rather unspeakably awful things to him in the past. I would hate me too. I do myself a favor by waking up each morning and reminding myself that while I do not want it, I do deserve this pain. Another groan floats around in my throat; “Maybe if you were using the planning you’re provided at the beginning of the year you’d know the answer to the question, eh Snow? If you’d put half as much effort into your schoolwork as your efforts to make the futbol team then I’m certain we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

 

“Fuck right off, Baz, it was just a simple question. I just didn’t recall us having any reading assignments tonight!” Simon’s voice has a bite to it that puts my body at war with itself. Should I shiver? Should I tense up and act angrier than I really am? I mean, haven’t I been doing that since we were twelve anyway? I settle on shivering.

 

“I’m cold.” I remark plainly with little emotion. Simon shoots a look over his shoulder. For a moment I think he might have decided to let the tension subside and simply close the window.

 

Unfortunately, my sarcasm comes back to haunt me when he turns his whole body, crossing his arms over his chest and tossing his curls from his eyes by rolling his neck. My heart, beating rapidly from the surge of blood I ingested this afternoon between classes, freezes under the pressure of his stare. For several seconds we just gawk at one another. We have these moments often and while Simon thinks that it’s a war, for me it is the closest I can get to him without revealing my affections.

 

His tongue clicks behind his teeth before his spits at me; “Maybe if you’d get off your arse with as much dedication as you’re reading then you wouldn’t so bloody cold!”

 

When he turns away I ball my fists, already resigning to deal with my intimate frustrations in the shower I’ll be taking later. My feet shift but I decide to remain precisely where I’m at because he sits down on his bed and gets his Humanities text out, which was what I’ve been holding all along. He starts flipping through anxiously, peering up at me when he can to gauge how far into the book he should be right now. I, for one moment, want to tell him I am sorry for my attitude.

 

Then my heart shifts; _I just wish he’d look me in the eyes._

 

**_“Tell me that you love me,_ **

**_Even if it’s fake,_ **

**_Cause I don’t fucking care, at all.”_ **

**_\--Agatha_ **

 

I know it’s wrong for me to pining after Baz, but I think there’s a lot more to it than I understand. I don’t want anyone to know that I like him because it is so _wrong_. I couldn’t be attracted to someone more opposite of Simon than Baz if I tried looking for one such person. I don’t just want Baz, though, I don’t think. Call me selfish – and I know a lot of people would _kill_ just to say it to my face… But…

 

I want Baz to want me more than he wants Simon. I want to be more important than Simon bloody Snow for just one moment, to just one person. He isn’t the center of the damn universe.

 

Nobody knows, nobody even suspects, but I’ve noticed the way he sneers when I try to arouse him. I’ve been watching him more closely for the last year. My actions have been more deliberate and far beyond what I should be doing as Simon’s girlfriend. I’ve brushed my hand against his in the halls, I’ve sought him out in the courtyard, and I’ve even taken to exercising near the pitch during his practices to make sure he’s seeing me in my tightest clothes, perhaps even my most revealing. However, his eyes always wander.

 

Where to, one might have questioned, were they not paying as close attention as I am. Where are those eyes drifting off? No matter where Basilton Grimm-Pitch is at on the Watford campus, his eyes always find their way back to Simon. See, being Simon’s girlfriend gives me an advantage over the others fawning after Basilton in silence. I know Simon’s schedule as well as my own. I know when he takes a snack break, when he studies, and where he likes to relax when he’s feeling bad about his lack of magical control. The only other person that could know that exact schedule would be Baz. Even if you don’t _like_ someone, if you live with them then you know what that person is always doing – I know this to be true from my _personal_ experience this year.

 

So, in my own demented way, I’m trying to make Baz want me instead of Simon. It gives him an outlet for his feelings for Simon and it gives me an escape from this dead end relationship with him. Truthfully, I love Simon. I’m just not “in love” with him and that’s no fairer than these nasty plans I’m making to get out of my obligation to him.

 

I feel trapped and that this might be the only way to convince him we’re not fit for each other. As I stand here in the setting sun, I know Baz will be here soon. I’ve requested his presence. I want to tell him that I know, to offer him something to make him closer to Simon. And I’ll take whatever he’s willing to offer me. _Anything_ , I remind myself, _even it means nothing_.

 

“Wellbelove.” Hearing Baz speak in such a casual tone makes my hair strand up. We’ve never met in private this way before, though we’ve worked alone on projects in class previous to this moment. Never did we meet after school hours, and never were we somewhere without eyes watching every move we made. I never considered the lack of privacy an annoyance until now. I’m glad nobody is here to see my knees knocking together in a nervous fret of what I’m about to propose.

 

“Basilton,” I begin, “are you well?” He doesn’t look it, but Simon would preach on and on about it being directly related to him being a vampire. I don’t deny that it makes sense but it isn’t possible. The Coven would have acted, someone would have done something about it were it true, and I trust that he would tell the truth if he were anyway. Baz loves proving people wrong, making everyone see how smart he is, and what he’s truly capable of doing. He wouldn’t let the world think he was a human were really a vampire, because he could prove that they’re not the monsters everyone keeps proclaiming them to be all over the world.

 

I don’t realize he responds because I am lost in all of my thoughts, plus I’m staring at him with a sense of fear of humiliation and rejection. What will I do if he turns my offer down? I hadn’t really though much on it but with him in front of me I am seeing that he may not be as desperate as I am hoping. I see he is waiting with irritation evident on his face, eyes nervously darting all around him as if he’s expecting Simon to pop out and catch us.

 

I know he isn’t worried about Simon hating him for seeing me, but because Simon would think he’s straight. This is such a dastardly plan, and I almost chicken out, but I won’t back down from following my heart. Even if others judge me for it I have to get all of this out, and so I blurt a little too loudly in his face…

 

“I know you love him. I can be your link!” Somehow these few words take the air from my lungs with vigor. Baz doesn’t process the worlds immediately. When he starts piecing the idea together, I see his eye move fluidly between horror, pain, and jealousy. I totally understand why he feels each of these emotions, and so I wait for him to choose his words to match.

 

Baz lifts his hand and lets it hang in the empty space between us; “I am not attracted to you in _any_ way. You can _not_ be my link to him.” The answer is simple. Yet the answer is never that simple, not in matters of the heart. I press him further.

 

“He kisses me after dinner. His mouth is flourish of tarts, scones, and puddings. He smells of cinnamon in the morning because he sneaks off to the kitchen before breakfast is over. I always kiss him before the second block.” What I am doing is best described as “begging without dignity.” Still, I make sure he understands; “We can be discreet and you’ll feel closer to him. You’ll have something to work with until we’re done at Watford and you don’t have to see him every single day.”

 

It is my last sentence that shows how tempting this offer is to him. I am far from innocent and I am far from foolish, though Penny is convinced otherwise at times. Shrugging, I wait for his contemplation to cycle thoroughly. When he reaches a conclusion he will say what he chooses. I swear to myself I must accept what he decides and I will proceed with strength either way.

 

Time ticks by with painful sluggishness and makes our meeting is longer than I imagined initially. Baz at some point squatted with his head tucked between his knees. Other times he raises to his feet and begins pacing. Occasionally he stops and looks over my body. I think he assessing how much of me he is willing to ignore, and how much of Simon Snow he can extract from my physical existence. A normal person would care but not me. I can’t afford to care because I’ve been defined by my relationship to Simon for too long. I haven’t much of myself to lose.

 

No, I don’t fucking care at all because I just want something to be different. I want to feel something. I want to control _something_ in my life.

 

“I don’t know that I could do that to him, Wellbelove. I don’t love him just because he’s there and I see him all the time.” Baz shares, “I love him with everything I’ve got inside of me.” He speaks passionately, as though I cannot see this in his face. He speaks as though he doesn’t wear it on his sleeve. But he speaks with desperation dripping from each word too.

 

There was no plan to persuade him further. The reply he provided shows me, though, that he might be willing to budge. I dress my voice in persuasion and manipulation; “Imagine how much better you’d feel if his scent clung to your clothes, and if his taste lingered on your tongue.”

 

I expect Baz to blush. As he shifts uncomfortably, I step closer to him to check. A modicum of a second brings me to the thought that I am not deserving of either boy but it passes when I am reminded how little of myself I actually am anymore. I cannot stop now. I am so close.

 

To control…

To Baz…

To a _change_ …

 

“I can’t decide this right now. I will let you know when I figure this whole mess out.” For the first time ever, he reaches out and takes my hand in his own. I always imagined he’d be warm, considering fire magic runs in his blood, but his chilly touch is welcome. It puts my own coldness into perspective and my muscles relax. This touch could mean he is swaying in favor of acceptance. I squeeze but he drops his chin curtly; “This is not to get out, by the way, or I’ll make sure you reap what you sow, Wellbelove.”

 

I don’t care the price, and so I agree. And I remind; “I don’t care if it’s for me, Basilton, I just need something new.”

 

“It seems we’re both desperate people.” He disappears quickly after that, followed by rustling leaves in the distance. It is too far for me to identify clearly so I assume whomever it is could not see me either. Chances are that it is Simon, ever after the affirmation that Basilton Grimm-Pitch is a vampire, and I don’t even feel guilty.

 

**_“You’ve been out all night,_ **

**_I don’t know where you’ve been.”_ **

**_\--Simon_ **

 

My frame of mind isn’t much calmer than it was a few hours ago, but I am giving myself the credit of not starting this conversation in tears. I am blocking the door with Baz in front of me rolling his eyes. This conversation needs to happen, though, and I won’t let him leave until I understand what is happening. Agatha broke up with me and I am convinced this has to do with the secret meetings she’s been having with Baz. If she’s leaving me for him I want to know what he gives her that I apparently cannot; I need to have an answer to heal somehow.

 

“Simon, all I am at liberty to say is that this is not at all what you think it is.” His voice trails off in a way that I am perfectly aware insinuates that he’s done discussing whatever the topic is at the time. I expected him to do this but I am standing my ground. I demand that he explain the two nights I’ve personally seen him out after hours with Agatha – _alone_.

 

Tears begin threatening my eyes but I refuse to let Baz see me weak _again_. I twist just slightly to let a few curls bounce over into my eyes to hide that they’re watering and bloodshot. If he thinks I’ve weakened he might not answer me. To distract myself I think about how usually Baz smells of cedar and bergamot but today he smells salty like sweat. I deduce that he probably went for a run between classes. Normally he would shower during that time too; sometimes he waits just to have an excuse to avoid me though. But I’m not chasing Baz down anymore.

 

“If it isn’t like that then tell me what actually is happening.” Just like that I begin crying. Weakness is a word often used to define me, and it stings painfully when it becomes visible to others. I just want someone to take me seriously!

 

Somehow I am everything that Baz despises in the world, from the moment we met no less, and I don’t have a clue how. No matter how much I try to be inconspicuous, studious, physically fit, magically skilled, and everything else he wants a roommate to be – I _always_ fall short. I’ll never live up to this image of the “Chosen One.” I’ll never be enough for a compliment from my own roommate.

 

And apparently I’m not even enough to keep my girlfriend.

 

Baz lifts a hand to put on my shoulder and I’m hopeful that he’ll extend some sort of affirmation and comfort to me. When our eyes meet it is lightning, and I feel my veins burning under his gaze. Inevitably he drops his arm and sighs; “The truth is for Agatha to share. I will say that she asked me to meet her first, at such time she made a request of me. The second time we met I told her I could not give her what she asked. The rest is for her to share, but I think you’ll be better of if you never ask.”

 

A smirk dares to tug at the corners of my lips. Amusement at Baz showing some level of compassion fills my mind for a couple of seconds, and then I remember why it was that I stopped him in the first place. My memory of the break-up returns and I am enraged once more.

 

“Did Agatha want to cheat on me?” I plea in pain, essentially knowing the answer to my question, but I ask anyway. She made it perfectly clear that whatever brought us together before is now absent, it is missing, and it is never going to return. The love we have had all along must have died along the way. While I didn’t totally disagree with what she said o me, I thought we could have worked on the relationship together. I was willing, and I am still am, but Agatha wants to move on.

 

So I have nobody to find solace in, and now I’m relying on my enemy to give me some sort of balance in my life. How awful is it that I need someone who hates me to lift my spirits. When he smiles I know he means it, for he doesn’t do it frivolously when I am around, but I also see that he is not proud of his words before they’re even spoken; “That is a complicated question.”

 

“Where are you going, then?” I interrogate him further to see if he is planning to meet with Agatha. If he won’t answer hard questions then I need him to answer simple ones; “I know that you sneak out and walk the campus after hours sometimes, but you’ve doing it every single night just to avoid me!”

 

Baz has nothing else to give and shoves me to the side. He doesn’t do it angrily or with malice, he just does it to move me. He does it to avoid the question. He’d been missing at the beginning of this year and there has been a strange tension between us ever since he came back. This development with Agatha only adds to it. As he places his hand on the doorknob I feel compelled to scream out. And I so; “JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU WENT THEN!”

 

Baz is gone before I can blink. Defeat wells up in my chest and I slam the door in angry acceptance before stomping over to my bed; at once I throw myself against the headboard and pull an old cotton pillow to my chest. It was one of the only things that belonged to me as I moved around as a child. I bury my face in it, leaving my eyes just barely above the edge to scowl at Baz’s own bed.

 

I want to ignore the scent of Baz’s cologne that always lingers in the room. He sprays his bedding once a day, he claims it is to hide the smell of fruit deserts that follows me everywhere. Hard and angry as I want to be with him, his absence reminds me of the suffering I was forced to endure when he was gone at the start of our year. I am reminded now that all I really want is to be his friend.

 

Agatha may have very well closed that door for me permanently.

 

And somehow that hurts worse than the break-up.

 

**_“You’re slurring all your words,_ **

**_Not making any sense._ **

**_But I don’t fucking care, at all.”_ **

**_\--Baz_ **

 

This morning my father calls, the way he does, with a brief conversation on the events taking place at Watford. Graduating at the top of my class was valuable, and Penny was a brilliant opponent all those years, but it left me obligated to certain alumni events. I think my father wants me to be a part of the Coven, or to even set my sights on becoming the next Mage. I have no such desires, of course. I have but one: _Simon Snow._

My father invites me to afternoon tea, and I accept even though I won’t be drinking anything. While at Watford I had to keep up the charade that I was a human, but those days are behind me. Many nights I had to sneak off to throw up the contents of my stomach, which I cannot digest, just to make it through another day pretending to be like everyone else. Now that I don’t have to maintain an image I simply avoid consuming mortal food.

 

I tell him that I’ve been meaning to speak with him anyway, and that this was well timed. My father is the man that married a genius. Some regard Malcolm Grimm as the farmer boy that married up, but be mistaken not I warn others. He is nothing shy of brilliant himself, and though I’ve never confronted him about my sexuality he’s always known. I have come to know in my years at the Grimm-Pitch estate that knowing and acknowledging are separate actions, and I hope to convince my father to do the latter.

 

Per the usual, my father is marking on notepads and clipping letters to the correlating pages. Before I’ve even entered the room entirely his hands fold into his lap. I put my hands into my pockets and waltz up to his desk and stare down at him with indifference; “I do not suppose you wish to speak to me about a small matter.”

 

For as long as I can remember, our conversations as father and son were formal in nature. Fiona was far from the formal sort, though, and I do believe my sarcastic wit comes from being around her; but I am very much the son of Malcolm Grimm and Natasha Pitch. Forward yet quaint, focused but visionary; I was never destined to have the outwardly obvious loving relationship with my father. To be fair, I’ve never resented that reality.

 

I really believe that the invisible wall protecting us from a more affectionate relationship come from the fear of others discovering I’m a vampire. If the Coven knew, I would be pulled from Watford and killed as a monster in the making. The only other person to know besides him for my entire childhood was my Fiona, my aunt, who was just as tightlipped about it as the pair of us. A few others know now, as a result of our seventh year heroics. Simon, technically, always knew but couldn’t convince his closest friends, Penny and Agatha, until I provided confirmation.

 

I found friendships and lost friendships that year. I also found something I’d always wanted in Simon Snow. This is why I wished to speak with my father. Even when he knew about my sexuality, he was adamant that I ignore it at times.

 

“You may have noticed that the nature of my connection with Simon Snow has evolved and changed over the last couple of years.” Speaking diligently and choosing my words with distinct purpose is essential. The less explaining I have to do is better. Not just for me, but for him as well; this isn’t the sort of content we usually discuss together. It wipes away a boundary that has silently been in place for a long time. Our eyes lock and I see that he is equally vested in the topic which surprises me. I worry that it is from a place of disappointment, and so I try to speak to relieve tension; “I come to tell you this so that if others question it you are not taken off guard.”

 

In the silence that follows I am waiting for him to yell, to insult me, or make an off color remark about my sexuality. Instead, when my crises seems to change from fear to acceptance, I see that he is smiling at me. My father even shakes his head from side to side laughing. This is the most unpredictable thing he’s done in my life and I stand with my jaw hanging loose. Everything he’s doing in these moments has me questioning whether it was ever an issue that I was gay to him at all.

 

Before he opens his mouth, I manage to come to the late realization that it really wasn’t ever about my being a homosexual that made him upset; “Whom you love has never been my concern, Basilton. I simply didn’t want anyone to discover you were a vampire. Acting on your attraction would have had you under far more scrutiny that I believe would have been wise.”

 

Paying close attention to his last sentence, it becomes clear that he’s transition from one topic to another. Even Simon wouldn’t be spacey enough to miss the clear intention behind his words. My father hasn’t only known about my being gay but he also could see that I had an attraction to Simon all along. I find myself wishing I’d given my father more credit than I have, but he forcibly melts those desires away with the harshness of his coming words.

 

I wish with all of my might when he breathes deep again and unfolds his napkin that he’ll go silent. Instead he keeps going on and digging up the worries that I’ve been burying beneath the surface; “I’m not sure the real concern here is if I approve of your sexuality. Is it?”

 

For all the power I have over fire, I cannot quell the burning in my throat. Intuition tells me one thing, but common sense tells me another. My passion for business leads me straight and gives me a barrier between my father and I, knowing he will be ungracefully blunt. He think he is protecting but he’s really just giving me a whole slew of mental issues from which I will never recover.

 

“Simon tells me he is attending therapy to cope with the loss of his magic, the new additions to his appearance, as well as his new identity. Do you think Simon will be as keen about being more public about your relationship?” Both of our bottom lips puff out, but his more dramatically than my own; “I don’t suspect he’s as ready as you want him to be, Basilton.”

 

Firstly, I doubt that Simon offered this information to him. He struggles to share anything about himself with anyone because he doesn’t like the attachment. It is true, of course, that Simon has been attending therapy. In fact, he’s been going since he left Watford in our seventh year. That’s when I remember that recently we had a family dinner where Aunt Fiona was present. Simon feels comfortable with her, to a degree, and would much more comfortably discuss his woes with her. Malcolm Grimm isn’t the sort of man that makes shady deals. Even so, I suspect he and Fiona would work together with different goals.

 

Reflecting on how my father may have gotten this information reminds me how similar Malcolm Grimm is to Natasha Pitch. Both of them were socially connected, though in different ways, and getting married connected those connections. Without a doubt in my mind, my father would access anything he needs with just a simple phone call or letter. Backdoors exist to just about everything if you’re a Grimm or a Pitch these days.

 

Meeting with my father puts back into perspective how normal Simon Snow is in comparison. I had a new respect for how magnificently mundane my life with him proves to be each day. After he says these things I tell him that I really must be going, and that his advice was welcome even if not very helpful. We shake hands and I return home without letting his words bother any further for the day.

 

 

It is dark when I get home, but Simon is working a closing shift at the café. All of his shifts are closing shifts, actually. The shop owner’s magic is stronger when the sun sets because her source of magic is an obsidian bracelet that extracts power from the darkness. She uses her talents to create a mist around Simon, hiding his wings and tail. Though I have come to find them endearing others are often frightened. My father, in particular, finds them disgusting on a good day.

 

Though there is no need for me to find a career, I looking for one periodically. My father pays for the flat that I’m living in, and Simon insists on paying rent, so whatever money I “need” to have comes from Simon. And it usually goes right back into Simon’s belly in the form of scones and sweet treats when we’re out running errands for my father and Fiona, or when I have to make a trip to Watford for some random occasion. I was intending to attend the London School of Economics, but after the stress of my seventh year I told my father taking a break would be beneficial. He did not argue, as this is a common trend amongst Normals and Magics alike. A part of my job-hunting routine is doubling back to the LSE’s website to review what is required in the application.

 

Making any changes in my life presently give me great anxiety, though I’m not sure anyone can actually tell. I want to make things more serious with Simon but I worry that he will reject me. Returning to a life without Simon would be nearly impossible, and certainly painful, as he has been the central focus of my life for the last eight years. If I am able to convince Simon to be more involved in our relationship outside for the flat walls, then I don’t want to rush into altering my schedule until he’s made complete peace with the status of our relationship.

 

And I don’t want to make changes prior to that for fear he will stray away from me…

 

I feel that no matter what I do now is a risk. Each way offers a risk I am unwilling to take as each road I go down could leave me alone. Simon is my top priority.

 

Reviewing for the hundredth time what the situation is, I start listing in my head what I knew to be true. _Simon doesn’t often leave the flat because of his wings and tail._ He is worried that my magic will not keep him covered properly so we spend a lot of time inside anyway. It doesn’t bother me at all because the less sun exposure the better. It doesn’t hurt me, but it is irritating even on a cloudy day. _Simon doesn’t do domestic things without me outside of the flat._ He says when we leave the house at conventional times he wants to share that time with me doing something meaningful and memorable. As such we tend to go to arcades, see movies, and hit amusement parks.

 

 _Simon doesn’t like sleeping in the same room._ He feels that we spent so long sleeping in the same room that we need time apart in order to build a normal relationship. I disagree with him, to an extent, but not entirely. Needing distance and time apart is important because it does give us the opportunity to separate our feelings for each other from this almost inherent codependency. However, nothing about our relationship is normal and I am frustrated that he thinks we can make it be normal in any way whatsoever.

 

Doubt crawls up into my throat. I reach for my phone to call Simon when I catch myself mid-dial. I am _not_ that kind of boyfriend. I _am not_ the boyfriend that questions my partner’s loyalty. I _am not_ the kind of partner who calls his boyfriend just to make sure that we are on the same page about our feelings. I refuse to be that kind of a partner to Simon.

 

Instead I start burning through a variety of news stories. Anything that is happening is interesting enough to me, and so I just read endlessly. Page after page, article after article, and eventually I find myself reading opinion articles on questionable websites that speculate about the fantastical ‘creatures’ that ‘do not exist.’

 

My eyes droop and I guess I fall asleep, because now I am jerking upright at the sound of a sharp banging on the front door of my flat. There’s some noise outside but I don’t think much of it until I check the time on my cell phone and see that it is well after midnight. Simon should have been home hours ago. Racing to the door, a series of terrible things cross my mind until I peel the door back and see a woman holding him upright. She isn’t familiar to me, but Simon is patting her face gingerly and giggling. When his hand goes up to her cheek I feel myself biting into mine.

 

“Clarissa is the _bomb!_ ” He speaks as if there is a joke to be had, but the girl shakes her head. Beauty is a natural feature of hers: curves where the world believes they should, a symmetrical face with golden eyes, silky brunette hair as perfectly placed as in a magazine. She shoves Simon into my flat and points her finger at me with what I can instantly recognize as fury.

 

“Keep yer brother out o’ me pub. He’s a right nutter and I won’t be having his shenanigans ‘round my customers. They love my place ‘cause we’re family! I don’t need no boys prancing in shoutin’ that they’re a dragon! Ain’t no such thing, dragons!” Before long she’s waving her arms and going back to the street. The only coherent thing I hear her shout back is that Simon is lucky that she didn’t call the cops for sexual harassment.

 

If it weren’t for the fact that she’s presented me with the real Simon Snow, I would not thought this was a story to be told of him. None of this sounds like him, but that fact that he is blatantly drunk changes me perception of what may or may not be truthful about him. We have never gone for drinks, nor have I tried to drink with my ‘condition.’ As far as living together, it’s only been a few months since those arrangements were made due to Penny’s departure to marry Micah. There is still plenty to learn about Simon yet, and I am faced with one such occasion now as he lays flat on the floor in the living room.

 

Micah invited Penny around to the States for a vacation, during which time he proposed to her. Initially Penny had turned him down, citing that she needed time to decide what her future career would be and where it would take her. Then Micah came back to London and proposed again, saying he’ll go wherever her future takes her. Of course, a research opportunity took her overseas where I’ve heard she is pursuing a medical degree. All of this left Simon to tend to his apartment on his own. Initially it worked because Penny paid her portion for three months out, hoping that Simon would find a new arrangement.

 

Truthfully, I think she was just hoping he’d be willing to come live with me. Penny knew I would take care of him when she left, and encouraged me to make sure he doesn’t lose himself in her absence. For years she was available to coach him through hardships. Life took them in different directions and she had to pass the responsibility off to me – his boyfriend. It made sense.

 

I made Simon a deal he really couldn’t turn down. Paying rent with Penny took up 80% of his income, which far exceeds the legal limit, and I told him I wouldn’t ask for a penny over 25% of what he earned each time he received a paycheck. Looking around proved fruitless unless he found a new roommate. As such, he accepted my deal on the condition that I changed my office into a bedroom. So we can sleep in different rooms and maintain a separate sort of life. As separate as two people living together, anyway…

 

What bothers me more than the separate room ordeal, which digs at me regularly, is that this Clarissa believes me to be Simon’s brother? Also, the comment about sexual harassment has my mind racing a million kilometers a minute. I need to get to the bottom of what is happening. Exactly what sort of shenanigans did Simon commit tonight after work?

 

Finagling Simon to the couch is about all the effort I want to put in before trying to get him to speak to me. At first I remain silent with crossed arms while he slurs through words that cannot be understood and snickers at nothing, but my patience is relatively short today. Without much promptly I throw my hands out and shout; “HOW DARE YOU BEHAVE LIKE THIS!” I am not his keeper, I am not his parent, but I feel that I need to be right now. He lacked in a guiding figure, and so as his boyfriend I feel myself occupying this position when Simon needs someone to be stern with him. Normal relationship, he says? What’s normal about this at all?

 

Simon gurgles, burps, and then grins as if he’s done something spectacular. I grab him by his arm and practically drag him to his bedroom. I hear him mumbling under his breath all the way; “One day thif and thef next day thaf. No thense. No thense!” I don’t know what he means about me switching my expectations but I can’t ask him when he’s this drunk. It’ll be a conversation for another day.

 

Once I have him under his covers I take in the scene of him passed out in his own bed in his own room inside of my flat. What sort of relationship would we even call this? Maybe I am more of a brother than a boyfriend. I don’t want to be, though.

 

It dawns on me that my father might have been right on this matter, and he’d really been trying to protect me from making myself appear foolish to others. Perhaps Simon really is not ready for the next stage of a romantic relationship between us. Just after we discussed the possibility of being more open about our relationship in public, not two days ago, he’s gone and done this ridiculously reckless thing. Not only was it risky to harass other people in public, but also because he also endangered the secrecy of his true appearance. The Coven has announced no consequences due to exposure but they have reason to dislike Simon Snow.

 

Every fiber of my being aches and throbs with sorrow. Things are not at all the way they used to be with Simon. The ‘honeymoon’ phase is long gone and we have to figure out how to be now – when things aren’t quite so glorious. I think the only thing that hurts me more, though, than this entire situation is that I know when Simon kisses me tomorrow morning when I’m making his breakfast I’ll forget everything. I’ll log it away as a strange incident. I’ll forget intentionally why I was worried for him and for us. And I’ll kiss him back as if nothing were ever wrong.

 

I know this is unhealthy but I have to cling to it. I don’t know how long it’s going to last from one day to the next. So I lean to kiss his forehead, apologizing softly for yelling earlier knowing that he’ll forget by morning. He must still somewhat conscious because I catch him smiling just slightly. He utters at me words that are as incomprehensible as anything from his mouth tonight. Selfishly, I pretend he is saying that he loves me.

 

I choose not to care what he is actually saying because until he indicates otherwise, I need to believe in something.

 

**_“Cause I have hella feelings for you,_ **

**_I act like I don’t fucking care,_ **

**_Like they ain’t even there.”_ **

**_\--Simon_ **

 

Mr. Grimm has taken to trading magical artifacts over the years, but in his later age he has become less keen on travelling. As such, Baz does many of the “field work” for his father these days. When he is home, he makes the occasional appearance at Watford to provide private tutoring for students who are in danger of failing classes. Baz thinks I don’t know that that he makes absolutely no money doing these sort of odd jobs, and he thinks I don’t know that he’s officially decided not to attend university. Of course, I’m not as dumb as I feel, and I do know all of these things.

 

Unfortunately, I’ve begun to notice a variety of other things. Presently Watford is on holiday. Baz left the first day holiday went on and isn’t due back until later this afternoon – it’s been four days. I am grateful he’ll be back for Christmas, but it’ll only be a couple of days before he’s flying out again to make another deal in Russia. He invites me on these trips but I cannot afford the time off from the café. He says I can, that he wont take money for rent if I’m not working, but I feel that borders on unfair. I refuse to go and he refuses to argue about it. So I spend many of my days alone in Baz’s flat wondering what to do with myself.

 

Usually Baz comes home, and he’s drained from the flight, so he goes directly to his room. Sometimes he’ll avoid me for an entire day, I swear it, waiting until the silence becomes too unbearable. If I am feeling particularly impatient I will kiss him when we cross paths in the hallway. That’s when he melts into me, turning one kiss into three or four. Then we kiss for hours endlessly until one of us proclaims that we’re too hungry to carry on, and we’ll separate just long enough to get something to eat. I really do love the feeling of his lips on mine, but I hate the feeling I get when he walks through the front door.

 

I don’t care for him to know either truth. My fear I that Baz knowing how strongly I feel for him may alter this course he’s made for himself. Economics and business are strengths for him, and these interests will take him all over the world. I don’t want him to give up his dream life for me, and I don’t want to give up my normal life to follow him. I know this is the most fucked up thing anyone has probably ever felt or thought, but I’m not about to talk it over with him either. Things work alright for now and they’ll just have to stay that way.

 

Besides, my whole identity has already been overturned every time I think I know who I am, who Simon Snow Salisbury is as a person. When I was 11, getting interested in sports to distract me from the bad in my life – BOOM – now I’m a sorcerer, a warlock, a wizard! I have magic, the strongest magic ever no less, and life takes forever to be normal. It is beautiful and fantastic and I love it, even if I feel pressured to be better than I actually was, and then – BOOM – I find out my magic isn’t organic and that I have to siphon it from the world around me. In the process of fixing it – BOOM – I lose it. At the same time – BOOM – now I am half dragon and half human! What even is happening in my life anymore? It doesn’t end there, though, because somewhere along the way apparently – BOOM – I’m gay.

 

Well, my therapist tells me not to say “gay.” I am not actually gay. My attraction to Agatha was not manufactured or falsely founded. However, I accept that neither are my feelings for Baz. I am emotionally and intimately aroused by men and women, so my therapist is trying to help me accept that I am bisexual. I know what that is, but she tells me that I’m not just bisexual, because many people are sexually aroused by things that they would never actually love (for example, she referenced machinery which baffles me still). So I am not _just_ bisexual, but I am biromantic too. She tells me that sexual and romantic attraction is a spectrum, that people can fall anywhere on this graph based on what they personally feel. And she says it can change fluidly throughout our lives? It’s all more confusing than I ever imagined so I just try to focus on myself and let others focus on themselves. I’ve got enough to worry about for now.

 

I haven’t even turned twenty-one yet and somehow I have had five identity crises in my life. Now I am trying to learn about this spectrum of sexuality and the difference between romantic and sexual interests. As I do the reading that I am expected to accomplish as a part of my treatment I can’t figure out what it is I really am anymore – except totally fucked up.

 

I haven’t a clue why Baz loves me.

 

And these days, I don’t even know if he does anymore.

 

I am making a sandwich when the door finally rattles. Everything in my body shouts to spin around but I don’t want to seem too eager. During our time at Watford, I never hid my emotions from Baz because it mattered not what he thought of them. It still doesn’t matter but so much has become distorted in my mind that I choose to control what parts of me come out. So I remain in place washing my dishes from dinner.

 

When he makes it to the kitchen I’ve dried my hands and started digging in a jar of cookies we keep. Everything inside is pretty well hard and stale. Baz made cookies for me that were supposed to taste exactly cherry scones, and they did, but I put the jar out of reach so I would forget about them. The instant I pull the cookie into view I see Baz’s face go slack.

 

In my fucked up way of thinking, I am okay with this, and actually proud that I’m proving I don’t rely upon him to give me sweet treats. I don’t _need_ him for anything. Dependency is not a good look on any partner.

 

Except, of course, that I desperately need him for everything.

 

“You made it without me.” Baz comments blandly, eyeing the jar to determine if I ate any of the cookies he left behind for me. He must decide to give up because he pulls his phone out and starts clicking around some e-mails.

 

“I did.” I reply with equal disinterest. This is our life now.

 

“I’ll have a shower now, if you don’t mind.” Baz grumbles, looking away from me now.

 

“I thought I’d have a soak before bed so you best hurry, I suppose.” I say with sarcasm. It’s not my strong suit and Baz sees right through it. His smile twists itself in my memory and the warmth of it bleeds all over my heart.

 

His lips are practically calling to me but I stay put. Partially in resistance, and partially because of Baz’s remark; “You could also come soak _with_ me.” His wink makes it sound playful but his pout makes him look serious. Deep frustration causes me distress. All we have done as a couple is kiss. I haven’t decided if I want more from him even though the idea is alluring. I choose to keep everything exactly as it is right now and shrug in response.

 

“I probably shouldn’t eat cookies the bathroom. Germs, you know.” I find my way to the couch and whip out my phone to loaf around until he’s finished in the bathroom. Baz doesn’t come kiss me, he doesn’t make a suggestive comment back; I worry that he doesn’t’ want to work at this and then I see that he might feel the same way about me. It’s my fault, of course, because I don’t know how to be okay with being the bi that I am. How do you become something you didn’t think you were?

 

Baz hollers when he’s done, but only to say he’s going to lie down for the rest of the night reviewing some texts that are being added to the curriculum at Watford. Apparently the Coven as for his opinion on what books should be adopted for the next generation of magical learners. Normally he doesn’t mention the school because it brings me great emotional distress. The trauma of losing my magic makes it a very sore topic. Hearing the school’s name come from his lips on a matter other than business reminds me how Normal and Abnormal I am compared to the rest of the world. Baz has more people in common with him than I do and it alienates me even further.

 

I never make it to the bathroom to soak because I cry myself to sleep on the couch.

 

**_“Cause I have hella feelings for you,_ **

**_I act like I don’t fucking care,_ **

**_Cause I’m so fucking sacred.”_ **

**_\--Baz_ **

When Simon announces that he’s done with therapy I am unsure. Even though Simon has stopped lying about me being his brother or cousin, he still doesn’t come right out and tell people that we’re dating either. We’re more than dating, actually. We’ve been living together for nearly three years now. Loving Simon is like living on bated breath for this exact reason.

 

Am I worth telling others about today? Does this person deserve to know that we’re dating, or maybe the woman he’s speaking with is attractive enough to keep her open as an option if things fail? I was always a bit mad loving Simon, wasn’t I, but he’s made me an absolute loon. Stressed as I am about these personal matters, professional I am thriving. My father and I have seen a higher interest in our brokering exchanges internationally lately, so I pour myself into my work when I can no longer suffer the pain of my personal circumstances. Of course, I only suffer more socially as the result of this behavior

 

For example, I went to Egypt recently to obtain a few miniscule items professionally, as well as some personal texts that my father was able to track down regarding my mother’s lineage tracing back to these lands. The gentleman that I was to meet happily invited me to his private residence to review the history in my Pitch ancestry. He shared a great many fascinating things, and not once did I show any interest in those amazing things.

 

Black as night hair, thick and long, dressed Kareem’s head was a starkly different from Simon’s hair as bronzed red as the sunrise. Golden and earthy in his skin tone, Kareem provided a darker view than that of the ever sickly skinned Simon Snow. Everything about them was a contrasting detail, and I valued each for their genuine beauty. Simon’s stocky an well-fed shape equally as easy to look upon as Kareem’s muscular build befitting of a runway. His tattoos versus Simon’s curl, each providing a distinct personality trait of each man. I remember him offering to let me stay at his private residence and my accepting, not because I found him alluring but because I was tired from the travels.

 

During breakfast the following morning, Kareem prepared a traditional dish for my dining pleasure. Our Egyptian heritage was a prominent feature of our identity back in Europe, but even so we did not often enjoy the cuisine of my culture. He presented to me a plate of kushari. Though I have done my best to avoid confrontations with mortal foods, I know I must indulge for the appearance of professional engagement. To my surprise, the kushari was far more enjoyable than I expected, even though I know it will be thrown up in a few hours.

 

When we were done, Kareem waited for my doting. I provided this to him and he smiled respectably. Together we cleaned the kitchen, at which time he commented to me; “I bet you taste of coffee and ashes, the way most successful businessmen often do…”

 

I am ashamed to admit now that a glancing second passed back then where I thought on how sexually frustrated I am being with Simon. I am innocent only so far as the participation of my body in my perverse fantasies. Forcing my sexuality deep into my soul is the cause of my intricate desires, but I won’t pursue them lest they be with Simon Snow. I know this now, and my heart reminded my steadfastly then. I replied to him in kind; “I do not, but you will never know for sure. My heart belongs to another.”

 

From then on, Kareem tried to test my limits. It is my guess he was not used to being turned down by any man, or probably woman. I did not ask, but I sensed that his sexuality knew no boundaries. If it is human and consenting, he would happily show the individual a good time by his standards. Of course, I suppose his interest now bleeds into an interspecies domain of bestiality. He doesn’t know that and I won’t be telling him.

 

He brushed my hand later in the day as we walked through Egypt to a meeting we were both attending for another matter that drew my interest. We stopped for lunch along the way and he asked me if I truly found no interest in him. I assured him of my place, that I’ve been in a relationship for years with the love of my life. Kareem yielded and was not blind; “He is a lucky man.”

 

My gayness must be as apparent as my eye color.

 

That was nearly eight months ago, and we’ve remained in contact out of professional necessity. On occasion he would call at a time when Simon is home, and when we’re having a spat about something rather miniscule. Kareem jokes often that the “love of my life” may only be the “love of my twenties.” I find his passes inappropriate. I have told Simon this is simply the nature of Kareem, and he has accepted it as such, but eventually his behaviors will gnaw at Simon’s mind. I fear the day those fears come to fruition.

 

Today, Simon and I are sitting in a restaurant together. I have my business papers out; reviewing the next transaction my father wants me to coordinate. My father’s health is deteriorating too quickly, and still not as quickly as man his age might usually experience. I am glad for his fortune, but I am not as appreciative of the constant harassing me about my relationship with Simon. He used to complain that my attachment to Simon was unhealthy, that it hindered my ability to achieve success, and that he crippled me with his lack of personal motivation.

 

Now he asks me if I will marry him or if we will adopt children and attempt to continue the Grimm-Pitch legacy. I am glad he came to accept the person I am and his support has become crucial to the sliver of sanity that I maintain these days. He pressures me constantly to make the leap forward I have been hoping to take for years. Constantly he gripes to me, _“Just confront him about the inner pain you feel by his lack of outward commitment!”_ I know he means well, but Simon not publicizing our relationship is only one of many failings in our relationship. He doesn’t have a clue how deep these struggles run.

 

There is no way he could ever know, either, because I do not even know myself where the foundation of our poorly structured love story is located. Was it when I fostered feelings of hatred towards Simon to make attraction to him? Was it when Simon’s girlfriend tried to make a love triangle out of desperate fools? Was it when Simon kissed me? Was it when this or when that or when how?

 

After all these fucking years I still haven’t a damn clue where we actually stand as a couple. Simon The-Most-Confusing-Person-I-Fucking-Know Snow! And still – still! – somehow that is an understatement. Rage is boiling inside of me just ask I hear his voice chime around my head.

 

“When is your next trip?” He asks while the waitress pours him another glass of tea. I remember the way Kareem called it coffee, exposure to the Americans he exclaimed. To calm down, I ponder how the word ‘coffee’ would sound from Simon’s lips. Would it sound as harsh? Would it sound foreign? Would it sound like him at all?

 

The waitress intervenes when I don’t reply; “My ex-boyfriend was that way – always caught up in his work.” Her eyes flicker up to me and I sense that she is angry with me; “About needed an appointment on his calendar to get his attention.”

 

Simon looks at me but he doesn’t let her comments sway him; “He works hard so that I can find what I want to do with myself. I don’t care if I need an appointment on a calendar to see him.”

 

My face doesn’t betray me. I command every individual feature to remain still and neutral. Each heartbeat threatens to break free of my chest. The blood threatens to boil and burn straight through my skin. As soon as I meet Simon’s gaze, though, my lungs threaten to deflate themselves under his soft gaze.

 

To think that he could have possibly seen through the mask I wear at all times that I am scared to admit he may not want to be my partner, my boyfriend, or my lover – it is unimaginable to me. We so rarely speak on the concerns that plague our minds that I almost convinced myself that he couldn’t tell a thing about me with just a look. It takes a lot of effort to realize wholly that he’s just admitted to a stranger that we are a couple. There was no coercion. There was not begging, pleading, or convincing. It was simply Simon Snow saying to someone that we are together.

 

I am always looking for a reminder that this relationship is working, even just a little, and he’s just given me what I needed to see before planning another trip away. There is something worth fighting for here, and I’ve just forgotten it is all, and he breathed a new life into my dead-on-legs soul. Maybe he _really_ is done with therapy because he _has_ figured it all out. Simon Snow might be able to actually function the way he used to, as the person I first fell in love with inside the walls of our Watford dorm room.

 

When the waitress walks away, Simon speaks; “That felt nice.”

 

Any other time I would have broken my focus and returned to work but today my gaze lingers. I am still reeling from the fact that Simon made a small bit of positive progress. I am glad not to have boasted or shown any outward signs of excitement, because Simon is discreetly crumpling a piece of paper just past the ledge of the table, quickly putting it in with the table scraps from our meals. Right on schedule, a deflated feeling in my chest removes all of my enthusiasm for anything about this day in particular. Doubt replaces the space previously filled with rage and oxygen.

 

Four years of this are-we-aren’t-we run around and I think I’ve exhausted my options with Simon. We are not on the same page and I wonder if we ever find a place where we can be happy with each other completely and openly. I have given him a great deal of my patience, more than he even realizes, much of which is motivated by my dependency on his returned affections. We are no healthier for my willingness to wait for him to want more of what I want. These experiences are why those flashbacks of time spent with Kareem periodically in my travels re-enter my mind.

 

Kareem suggested that Simon may not be this great love of my life as I thought, and that with time I will come to love someone else. I have never given his words merit because Simon Snow is the reason I still walk this planet with any enthuse. He is my motivation for living but is it possible that Simon and I cannot be in a healthy relationship ever?

 

Was our love dead on arrival?

 

Images of Kareem enter my mind but never arouse me. For all the ways he was lovely and tantalizing, I can only compare him to my boyfriend across the table. And at the edges of every thought I have on our way home, I wonder if Simon feels that same about me.

 

Do his wandering thoughts always come back to me?

 

**_“I’m only a fool for you,_ **

**_And maybe you’re too good for me.”_ **

**_\--Simon_ **

 

Yesterday Baz informs me that we have a luncheon to attend, and I agree because I always have done as much. Malcolm seems to have hit a second wind in spite of his age and has worked double time to get the Grimm-Pitch mansion turned into a museum of the very artifacts and texts that he’s been collecting with Baz for years. Apparently he was able to convince several investors to donate their long ignored relics to the cause, many of which are unspeakably valuable. Due to the influx of business, I’ve had to cut my hours of availability at work to play the role of Baz’s doting fiancé.

 

I play the role, but I am far from actually engaged to Baz. There are some months where these luncheons are the only time I see him. He is in and out of London so often anymore that I can’t even get myself onto his calendar if I tried to actually make an appointment. When he does stay at the flat for more than a day or two, well, he is on the phone taking business calls or holed up in his bedroom preparing documents for the next trips he has scheduled.

 

Though, when he does spare his complete attention to me, I am reminded of just how much I love him. I stay because Baz is everything to me, everything beyond words and feelings. Unseen forces drive people all the time, and I pity them, because I have the pleasure of looking upon mine every day in one way or another. I get to speak to the reason I keep going every single day. It doesn’t feel that way lately but I do care so deeply for him. There’s nothing I would do to keep him smiling.

 

If Baz were home more, we might be engaged, but he’s not slowing down anytime soon. So I presume our plans to marry are proportionately related to his business regime. When the work slows and reaches a tolerable amount of travel, I am sure the conversation will arise about making things official.

 

Without a shred of doubt I know he loves only me, so I’ve been waiting for him.

 

I arrive in a taxi shortly after Baz, who stayed with his father after a lengthy flight that landed while I was working a shift at the café. My attire is business casual, as I never dress nicer than that unless I’m told to look professional. Baz never asks me to do that because I am unique in the fact that I don’t have to impress a single person in the room. I don’t feel comfortable initially but I have come to be at peace with the differences I have with the men and woman that usually attend these meetings.

 

I am directed to the pavilion behind he restaurant. This is Malcolm’s favorite Italian diner in London, and many of our meetings take place here simply so he has another reason to enjoy the cuisine. As soon as I walk through the glass doors at the back of the restaurant I see Baz speaking with a gentleman that shares some of Baz’s best features.

 

It is likely impossible for someone to walk into a room and not notice him. While Baz is sipping at a glass of water, this stranger is speaking animatedly to the server. As soon as he turns towards the building I see a twinkle in his eyes, presumably as they notice me walking towards the scene. Baz introduces me to this man immediately; “Simon, so glad you were able to make it. I would like you to meet Kareem. I work with him whenever I am dealing with African artifacts.”

 

Kareem pokes a hand at me, and I oblige nervously; “Old magic resides in African history. Baz goes on and on about the artifacts he hopes to acquire during his future travels to your home.” This is why I come. I am genuinely enamored by the greatness that surrounds me. I boost their egos by being honestly impressed by the work of each individual I speak to; and it increased the odds of Malcolm and Baz making a fiscally strong deal with potential traders, buyers, and investors.

 

During the unstructured time of the meeting, I notice Kareem cycling back to Baz often. They make small talk before one of the two walks away. I do my best to follow Baz around to involve myself in as many conversations as he enters, but I cannot make myself approach when Kareem is nearby. Many times Baz complained to my of his abrasive flirting and overzealous attempts to draw his sexual interest. I know Baz would never betray me by being unfaithful to me, but memories of Agatha’s shenanigans during our last year at Watford come to mind.

 

I know now that she was trying to bait him into relying on her to get a fix of something he desperately wanted to have as his own. Kareem could be picking around the edge of unspoken insecurities and weakening Baz’s resolve on any number of matters. Baz turned her away, and I’m sure he would do the same to Kareem if he were to become more aggressive in his attempts to woo my boyfriend ( or my fiancé, depending on whom you asked). Baz was pained to turn away a chance at being nearer to me when Agatha gave him a temporary solution. Knowing that he was hurting because he couldn’t have something he wanted still brings me discomfort to this day.

 

Baz is simply too good for me.

 

Typically these meetings do not run long, Malcolm eats himself sick and then asks Baz to return home with him so that they can review the conversations that transpire. I leave with them, and sometimes I ride along playing a game on my phone. Usually I return home to nap before work or simply to do nothing. Today, though, seems to be dragging on for an ungodly amount of time.

 

I follow Baz around for a short time, commenting when Baz prompts me to contribute to whatever topic. I’ve commented on the value of magic, the drinks, and a specific brand of ties that Baz is particularly critical towards. When I’ve made rounds with him I break apart, giving him a peck on the cheek whenever we cross paths. Nobody is deterred by our comfortable intimacy. The only person that ever comments on it is Kareem. When I find myself with Baz and Kareem again, after I make kind remarks about his contributions, he says; “I wonder from which grotto you found this treasure.” Though he seems sincere, I sense a hint of sarcasm. But even I cannot deny how sexy his voice is when he speaks.

 

I watch Baz to see if anything about Kareem arouses him. Even though he never seems to linger or intrude in his personal space, there appears to be a friendly chemistry. I spend the afternoon wondering if I am holding him back in some way from exploring the full extent of his sexuality. It is only when Kareem must depart early that I make my decision. He yanks Baz in closer and whispers to him before letting out an obnoxious laugh escape from behind his teeth.

 

Soon after Baz returns to the table, everyone agrees that there is little more they need to discuss today. Many are quick to leave, and those that do linger are the ones reconnecting with Malcolm on a personal level; friends. As soon as Baz frees himself up, he asks me to walk with him along the shrubbery at the furthest edge of the diner’s property. It only puts ten or twenty meters between the other guests and ourselves, but it is certainly enough to provide us with some privacy.

 

During our walk I barely keep track of what Baz is saying. He notices; “Simon, are you listening?”

 

“No.” I admit.

 

“Are you okay?” He inquires, more feeling in his voice than I’ve heard all day. Ever the cool diplomat, now he’s the fiery boy I kissed in the middle of the woods when we were just boys figuring out what the fuck was going on in the world. Fire danced around us and there was an inclination to just do what my instincts told me to do – instincts that were guiding Baz in the same direction. Now flames lick my memories and burn through me with rage.

 

How could I be such a disappointment? We have been living together for years. Nearly five now, I think? Six? I can’t even say for sure. During that time we have never done anything more than kiss. We don’t buy groceries together, we don’t pool our money, we’re not …

 

“…if we were engaged…”

 

My head jerks around, neglected curls jumping into my field of vision. The gel I used this morning was cheap and clearly couldn’t handle the humidity of summer. Baz smiles at me and repeats himself; “I can’t help but wonder if things would be better between us if we were engaged. Something concrete like that would give us something to rely on every single day.”

 

I know this won’t solve the problems that we have, though, and won’t give Baz what he deserves. Despite the abundance of air around me, I feel as though I have none to spare. My heart warns me not to speak, to not say what my brain has devised specifically for my brand of self-destruction. In bitter gratitude, I envy that my muscles did not heed the warning. I say precisely what needs to be said; “We aren’t in love.”

 

Baz scoffs nervously; “You’re joking, right?”

 

I step away from him, horror etching into the fibers of my very being; “I do mean it, though. We are not _in_ love with each other.”

 

“Simon, I think maybe you left therapy too early. What you’re saying is nonsense.” Baz sputters through his dry lips. I see him shaking, his eyes turning red out of fright.

 

I deflect; “Therapy has nothing to do with what I’m saying.”

 

Baz reaches out to me, to make a connection with me, and I can’t have him trick me into staying. He deserves better and if he can’t see that on his own then I have to make him see it. I love the idea of him so much that I can’t love him in a healthy way. I am holding him back with this unhealthy, unfair, and unrealistic relationship.

 

“Please, Simon, we need to talk about it this. We _never_ talk about anything!” Baz spits at me, tears forming in his eyes, doing everything they can to avoid spilling over his cheeks. His volume remains every bit as soft as mine but everything else about him is wild and distressed.

 

I put more distance between us; “We’re breaking up.”

 

Before he can say anything else I escape over the fence around the diner’s property line. Nobody could possibly know what has been happening until I do this, if they were even watching. The instant I make it over I run and I keep running until I can’t remember what roads I’ve gone down, where I’m at, or what time of day it is. I run until I forget why it is I am running.

 

When I stop I’m at a bookstore. To my surprise there is a face inside that I recognize. Penny would be dragging me away in a fit if she were here – if she’d kept contact with me once she left for America…

 

Once inside I go straight to the counter; “Good afternoon!” She shouts without turning around to greet me properly. I reply in my somber tone, practicing a smile before she does engage me directly and realizes who I am exactly. Trixie is lovely and not nearly as terrible as Penny always made her seem. She wears a slouchy dress and sports a toothy grin when she sees me.

 

Instantly her eyes light up, “Oh, my! Simon bloody Snow! In my bookshop!”

 

We make small talk for a few minutes before she asks what I’ve been doing – and I have to admit that I haven’t done much for work since the incident with the Mage, Davvy. Trixie thinks that my lackluster life is fine, but is also nonsense and says that she could use some extra help around the store. She runs it with her girlfriend, but she’s recently taken an internship in Paris for six months; “There’s not enough work for three people, but too much for just one.”

 

I tell her that this sounds fantastic, and even joke that I’ll have to start reading more. She winks before telling me that I can come back first thing in the morning so she can start showing me the ropes and help her with morning errands before opening the store up for the day. I accept my new role and hurry around town looking for an ATM. I won’t return to the flat until I know Baz won’t be there, and then I’ll get the essentials that I need. Until then, I guess I’m just going to stay in a hotel.

 

Though I am sick to my stomach to make a brand new life without him, I know he deserves this chance. He _deserves_ a man that will love him properly.

 

**_“I’m only a fool for you,_ **

**_But I don’t fucking care, at all.”_ **

**_\--Agatha_ **

 

After attending my mother’s funeral just last year, I have come home to now attend my father’s passing too. The sting of their loss reminds me of the deteriorations of our relationships, parents and child. My life has been great and exceptionally Normal after running away from home to live in California. I had to leave behind the life I knew in order to find happiness for myself.

 

When left to my own devices, being involved with any part of my past makes me a terrible person once more. I fill this role of myself and I slip easily into old habits; habits I don’t even want.

 

And those habits die _hard_.

 

Speaking of such things, one of my ‘habits’ is named in the will for my parents. In fact, he is the _only_ person named in the estate. I could argue this in the courts if I wanted but I don’t dare. When I go home, I am a successful marketing agent in California and I travel often, though never too close to home. After a few months I began exchanging friendly letters with my parents. It took some time to invite them to see me but they never obliged my request, as I never accepted theirs. I suppose the fact that I never appeased their desires to come back to a world I hated must have made them choose Simon as their benefactor. Though I am entitled by law, Simon is likely entitled by commitment.

 

All of this, I explain to him while sitting in the park.

 

“I can’t believe it’s you, Agatha. You look so different.” His voice sounds soft as the velvet dress I wear to our office Halloween parties. I comment now that he has changed too, most notably that he’s had his wings removed as well as his tail. After I explain that I used to visit Penny when she first arrived in America, I ask where it was that he was able to have this operation.

 

Simon details how Trixie, Penny’s least favorite roommate from Watford, had connections with a healer from the Pixie race that was particularly talented. It took several attempts and just as many months to remove the wings, and it had a great many side effects that left Trixie alone in the shop, but eventually the process was successful. As soon as he healed completely, Trixie transferred ownership of the business.

 

“She wanted to live with her girlfriend in Paris. The long distance and separation made her heart ache.” Simon concludes airily, though not with sadness. He seems happy enough but I realize he has not made one mention of the only part of his life that I actually cared to know about: Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

 

When his name leaves my lips, a flash od sadness overpowers Simon’s features. This makes me emotional and sends me back to the days he would wander around the Watford campus with this same expression. Neither of us quite fit in there, not even when we were with each other. He finds courage to explain; “We broke up a year ago. I didn’t want to keep holding him back.”

 

“Hold him back? How do you mean?” I don’t mean to bark at him, but I do snap a bit. There is no way could Simon Snow hold anyone back, honestly. All he knew how to do was lift others up and bring attention to them. For every ill act he tried to take upon another person that was twice as many good acts as he ended up committing. I can’t see him being deterrence to anyone. I mean, aside from myself.

 

Before I know it we’ve been talking for nearly an hour; him recounting the problems in his relationship with Baz and my insisting that he’s a madman. In the end we drop the subject and I remind him that the purpose of our meeting was always for him to sign paperwork from the attorney in charge of my parents’ respective estates.

 

“Me?” Simon questions in disbelief still.

 

“They always thought you were brilliant, you know. I don’t doubt that they wanted me to marry you.” _Agatha Salisbury_ , the thought makes me uneasy. Still, part of me does look over Simon now and wonder if maybe the timing was just wrong. Things are easier with him than anyone else. With him living a Normal life now, it wouldn’t be _ridiculous_ for him join her in California. He has no education, but he could open a bookshop. Aspiring actors, authors, and artists are always looking for a quiet nook to bring them some inspiration.

 

We hold each other’s gaze for a very long time. Simon is the one who breaks the silence, which relieves me of the obligation to speak further; “You wouldn’t have been any happier than Baz. I’m not relationship material.”

 

Forcing those words through his teeth do not make them truthful in any way. I want him to know this but a stupidly selfish part of me that I thought I’d left behind when I ran away comes back. Instead of doing the rational thing I put my hand on his knee, covering the hand he already has there, and I squeeze; “You don’t define another person’s happiness. If you make another person happy then you accept it – and appreciate it.”

 

We leave the park together to get drinks after he signs the papers, promising that if I need anything he’ll help me with the funds they’ve left. I refuse such kindness, but sarcastically suggest that he should move to California with me just in case. Seconds of awkward silence pass by, but he does decline.

 

Nervously he follows up the rejection with a positive comment, “We can have a good time while you’re here visiting, but we both know I’m not leaving and you’re not staying.”

 

As long as Baz is alive, Simon won’t go away. As long as Baz is alive then there’s a chance they’ll meet again – and maybe their _“timing will be right.”_ And since Baz is a vampire that probably can’t die, well, I guess I was never going to be able to compete with him, was I?

 

But Simon still takes me home, and we do quite a bit of kissing, but he refuses to do more than that for reasons he never discloses. Something is missing, and I know that it always has been that way, so I don’t take it personally. When we pass out in one another’s arms on the couch and wake entangled the same way, I don’t feel anything but sad. Sad for Simon, Sad for Baz; somehow they got lost and I hate that they’re suffering. I really did care about them both, in different ways, but with the same intensity.

 

I’m not satisfied with what has happened with Simon, though, and I dial Baz’s number from the bathroom. I convinced myself that the intention was reconnect him with Simon somehow. But when I hear his voice, I remember why I was so selfish back then. The way he speaks is so creamy and full. Harshly transparent language makes him seem gruff but efficient. I swoon from the toilet as I change my objective to scheduling an impromtu lunch date, for _me_ to reconnect with him.

 

I decide my reputation here is pretty well damaged anyway, so why should I care if I meddle in their affairs? Am I really interfering by trying to steal their affections, even if only temporarily? They’ll always thirst for one another more anyway.

 

Baz is far less romantic about where we meet. He agrees to meet with me in a pub, insisting that being my presence will probably require a few drinks. It is oddly exciting how blunt he chooses to be even when we sit at the bar together; “Why are you even back?”

 

Of course he knows, he has to know that my father just died. I am a shitty person, I will admit, but not so much that I would not come to honor my parents’ memories. Instead of buying into his snarky attempt to break me down I make it clear what I want; “I’ve just come from Simon’s place.”

 

He chokes on his drink mid sip and a part of me is glad. I am wicked in all the worst ways, I suppose. A few my past flings have suggested that this is what makes me one of the best marketers in the business. I accept their compliments as I push them out of my apartment door.

 

“You have got to be kidding me.” Baz coughs, “You are trying to same bloody tricks you did almost ten years ago.” I refuse to accept that it’s been nearly that long. When I’m with Watford alumni, I feel as much my old self as any. American television shows me, and affirms my dastardly choice: that fooling around with an old flame is okay if it’s just for a day.

 

I never got what I wanted from Baz, though, and I am choosing to try again; “He is no less hesitant to shove his tongue down my throat now than he was then.” I click my tongue at the end of my sentence to drive the point home. As I breathe in I am surprised that I smell Simon’s cologne so crisply still. I hadn’t sprayed it on me before I left, but I made sure to kiss him as passionately as I could before parting ways. Having his arms wrapped around me must have left the scent as strongly on me as himself.

 

Baz seems to recognize it and steps into me on my barstool. I twist to sneak my knee around him so that he’s between my legs. Exposing my neck, I urge him further; “The taste of his arousal is still fresh on my lips.”

 

We’re adults now and I say these words with as much confidence as any. I’m not the same girl that he knew years ago, but I’m just as wanting. I’ve found that going after the things that I desire only makes me more successful. If I fail now, I will find victory later. In one way or another, I eventually get what I want.

 

“You want to kiss me that bad, huh?” I love that he sees right through my rouse. I guess in my adulthood I can admit that I never meant to get him closer to Simon. I only ever wanted him close to me. Then, maybe I was foolish enough to believe he would love me if he put the charade on long enough. I was deluded and believed silly things. Baz never would have abandoned his love for Simon. Even now he wants a man he’s not seen in a year. Distance, time, it never would have made a difference. He was always going to be in love with Simon fucking Snow.

 

I physically feel myself turning bitter. I keep my smile on and trace his body down to his belt and back up; “I do, but the question isn’t about me. The variable is whether you’re interested and desperate enough to do it.”

 

Everyone around us is dancing, kissing, grinding, laughing, and drinking. Their evening activities began early and they’re already checked out mentally for the weekend. Our proximity makes all of it a mere backdrop to our dramatics. Nobody cares what we’re doing over here. I don’t even truly care about what I’m doing here beyond getting a kiss I wanted from a boy I don’t fucking care about at all anymore.

 

“How badly do you miss the taste of him lingering in your mouth?” I moan these words to him, waiting to see his reaction. And I do not have to wait long because he lifts a hand and slams his face into mine. It hurts but in a satisfying way. More than once our teeth clang together. Other moments he’s gentle when he shifts and pushes his tongue over mine. For all the power and intensity of it, not for a moment do I feel anything. Baz aggressively sucks every bit of lingering flavor Simon left behind for himself, and my body tingles when he parts. We gasp for air but Baz quickly lifts his left hand to my face and aggressively presses his fingers into my cheeks.

 

He is the embodiment of fury; “You had no right to be with him. He is so much better than you in every way imaginable.”

 

He push my face back so hard that I nearly fall out of my stool, but I’m laughing hysterically at him as he leaves. I finally got what I wanted from him.

 

**_“Tell me pretty lies,_ **

**_Look me in the face,_ **

**_Tell me that you love me,_ **

**_Even if it’s fake._ **

**_Cause I don’t fucking care, at all.”_ **

**_\--Baz_ **

 

After the funeral, Simon approaches me. He asks about Kareem immediately, almost as if he knows that I have seen him casually over the last year. We never do much, though it is more than I’ve done with Simon. Speaking plainly, I’ve always been a bit more sexually motivated than him. What I share with Kareem is as noncommittal as where a person gets their chips from, or their toothbrush. He is familiar, so I do not mind him, but he is not what I would choose if there were an option. Kareem knows I am heartsick and he accepts this aspect about me, which is more kind than anyone else who dares to make a pass.

 

A new maturity has come to Simon, and I see it when we speak about my casual relationship with Kareem. He doesn’t pester me for details and I do not offer them. We have not been together. Surprisingly, he feels that reminding me that Kareem is more in my league than himself seems important to Simon. I deny such suggestions; “My league is whatever the hell I please, as you are well aware.”

 

“The only rules are those made by Basilton, right?” Simon smirks.

 

Damn it, I love him; “You are the only one who chooses to break them, too.”

 

Simon nods; “Agatha left my apartment this afternoon. I suppose she came to see you after?”

 

Answering is unnecessary. We both know that she did, and we both know why. Somehow that innate awareness eases the tension between us and opens the pathway for a much more comfortable conversational setting.

 

I am surprised when the banquet is all but over and it’s just us at a table carrying on with life as if it were stopped on that day in the garden. I proposed to him, which I failed to share with anyone else. He’s the only one that knows and I feel in my heart he’s not shared this with another soul either. Otherwise Agatha would have mentioned it very specifically.

 

As the seconds sneak from us and threaten to have us removed by Agatha, I make sure I say what I need to say to him; “My offer still stands, Simon.”

 

“What offer is that?” Playing dumb is not in Simon’s list of talents for his C.V.

 

“I’ll marry you when you stop being an idiot.” Chiding him happens so naturally and I want to stop myself. I worry that this could be something that keeps driving us apart.

 

Only I’m not being sarcastic.

 

He really is being an idiot.

 

I fucking love him.

 

Simon wants to hug me, and I see it in his eyes, but he forms balls with his fists. He rolls them around his thighs while contemplating how to turn me down again. I let him think and I let it remain silent. He has to find the strength to turn me away on his own – when I’m sitting next to him – when I’m touching his shoulder.

 

“We can’t just pick up where we left off, Baz, and you know that.”

 

“Fucking _fuck_ that, Simon.” He cannot be doing this to me – _again!_

 

“We have different lives now and I don’t know that we want the same things out of life anymore. I mean, I want you – and I know you want me – but is that enough for us to keep trying?” Simon’s voice is trembling and he is starting to cry, and I can’t resist leaning in and taking him in my arms. Easily he falls into my arms and the pattern of my comforting him. So many of our early days together were spent precisely like this – I want to spend more days holding him.

 

My heart races with him against me and when I see Agatha pass I sneer. Let her think she’s brought us together again. It will eat away at her. To think I ever thought positively of her for any period of time makes me ashamed; “Simon, I just want you to love me.”

 

“I don’t care if you really love me.”

 

“I spent years hiding my feelings.”

 

“I wanted to run from you.”

 

“Any time I spent with you has always been valuable to me.”

 

“I love you – no matter how much of you I’m getting.”

 

“Please, Simon, just give us a chance to make this right.”

 

Now I’m crying. We sit here and cry because something is happening and we haven’t a clue what. We’re okay with that as long as we have each other. I just want _something_ with him. I’ll take anything.

 

I’ve always been willing to take anything.

 

**_“You’ve been out all night,_ **

**_I don’t know where you’ve been,_ **

**_You’re slurring all your words,_ **

**_Not making any sense,_ **

**_But I don’t fucking care at all.”_ **

**_\--Penny_ **

 

Something in my chest feels funny, and I am sure that I need to get up and grab my phone. With my hand over my swollen belly and my eyes squinted, I only barely realize that my phone is actually already ringing by the time I make it across the room. It’s not that I’m extremely pregnant so much as I am tired from being up and running errands all day. Micah was at a conference, so, I did all of _his_ errands too. Surprisingly, that is definitely more than I can handle doing in eight hours at five months pregnant.

 

I am out of breath when I see the screen already, but I lose it again as I realize the number calling me is vaguely familiar. My heart feels as if an old memory has swallowed it and whispered reminders of a time long ago. Gradually, and then all at once, I piece together who is calling. I manage to even answer my phone accordingly; “I didn’t realize it was the season for Snow. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

I miss him so deeply sometimes, but I recognize that his loss of magic has driven us in very different directions: my love for Micah and research; his love for food and Basilton Grimm-Pitch. My life bringing me to America, and his taking him down the winding and unpredictable path that was created specifically for him at birth. Just knowing he’s on the other line thinking of me is enough to bring those warm feelings of genuine friendship back. Part of me wishes I’d kept in closer contact, but I love my career and my husband greatly. Sacrifices were made.

 

I tap my stomach again, reminding myself that I’m more than a career-driven woman now. I’m going to be a career-driven _mother_ too. Although years ago I wouldn’t have been excited to be where I am now, I couldn’t be more grateful in this moment. Micah and I have become quite enamored by the idea of being parents.

 

“Penny, I know you have stuff going on in America, but I have a big problem.” Simon always has a big problem and I want to do my very best to help him, even if we’ve been ripped apart by distance. Though I do not feel urgently on the matter, I am sympathetic and patient with him. I will help, this I know before I agree, but I need more information before telling him so.

 

I breathe in carefully, “What do you need from me?”

 

Simon mutters something to another person, and his tone is demanding, and then I hear a car door shut. Soon after I hear him say that ‘three hundred should be enough’ and then reminds whoever it is that he’ll be quiet or be made to stay quiet. Years ago I do not think he could have sounded so angry and intimidating, but he does now and I shudder at the sound. A sliver of urgency makes itself apparent to me. Then he resumes our call, sounding as if he’s struggling; “Baz is sick. Not just hungry sick, but actually sick from eating.”

 

This intrigues me, perhaps even more than the idea of helping Simon. A vampire – _sick?_ My work has been mostly for Normals since coming to America, though I’ve consulted on various Magical studies. Simon must have known that this is an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Last time we spoke, I do believe I spent a fair amount of time bragging on all of my victories and awards. It had been particularly pompous of me, and though he was used to me being proud of my accomplishments, I’d suffered a miscarriage just two months before that meeting. Anything to distract me from the misfortune of losing a child I didn’t know I’d wanted was mandatory. Micah and I struggled to maintain a healthy relationship with one another, as well with our careers. We very nearly gave up on everything.

 

So without a doubt Simon was motivated because he believed that Baz’s condition would be too enticing to ignore. Shamefully I have to say he is correct and ease back into the conversation; “I can be there in the morning but I need some information to review on the flight over.”

 

Next to me is a legal pad, a necessity in my daily work. I have one with a pile of random pens and pencils in every room. I keep notepads of varying sizes in purse. As he starts listing the symptoms of which he is aware I write them down in a messy scrawl:

 

-Vomiting blood (presumably consumed but not confirmed)

-Warmth of skin

-Disorientation with slurred speech

-Fainting, potentially unconscious

 

Next I am asking him to tell me anything he can about Basilton’s eating patterns prior to this incident, hoping to narrow down the possibilities down to a single potential contagion. All Simon can tell me is that his boyfriend has been eating somewhat excessively in preparation for a possible trip out of the country in the coming weeks, and that he’d been feasting in town more often than he has in the past. It is no a massive help, and I’d need more information when I get to Simon’s flat, but it’s enough to _start_ doing _some_ research.

 

“I am going to gather some texts and then get on the first flight I can find over there. Once I land I’ll text for your address, okay? I will see you soon.”

 

At my earliest convenience I dial Micah’s mobile number, and am surprised when I hear it ringing in the kitchen. He is home earlier than I was anticipating, though I do not complain when I find him in the hallway; “I am flying to London.”

 

“Absolutely not.” Micah replies with a laugh.

 

“I am needed. Urgent. Non-negotiable.” It isn’t, and letting him know this saves us an indeterminate amount of time. It used to be we would debate around one another until we either caved to an idea or shouted how unwavering our positions were about whatever the topic. Now we disclose the ‘negotiability’ of the topic to determine if we believe we can be convinced one way or the other. Maybe it is healthy, maybe it isn’t, but it works for us for now.

 

Micah is shaking his head when I push past him to refresh my suitcase. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve travelled, and I know some of my shirts need to be swapped out with how far along I’ve come in the middle. Being pregnant and round and what not, it requires more space. As we walk he tells me; “If we go we are talking to Vanessa before we go – she has to okay your travel or we’re not going. No matter how urgent. Non-negotiable.”

 

I nod curtly and accept these terms. Vanessa Parish is a friend from my early days in medical school. I didn’t go into the medical field to practice every single day in an office, though, and have been researching with my degree since graduation. We hadn’t kept in touch, but we were comfortable when I was assigned as her patient. I trust her.

 

And more importantly, _Micah_ trusts her.

 

He dials her personal number from my phone, explaining that a personal emergency has come up, and that we need to fly home immediately. There are some words exchanged, possibly the risks of flying in this term, but quickly Micah calls out; “How long are we planning to visit?”

 

“As long as it takes,” I begin, thinking thoroughly on it, “But not more than three weeks I suspect.”

 

Micah’s eyes go wide as he communicates back to Vanessa what it is I’ve said, though she surely just heard me saying it. Once the phone is clicked off, he begins packing his bags alongside me in our bedroom; “I’m going with you.”

 

“Non-negotiable.” I whisper, knowing I wouldn’t have it any other way. Travelling to help Simon on my own would be a betrayal of who I am today. The past is the past, and rightfully so. Micah at my side will keep me at my best.

 

Our flight moves as slowly and as quickly as one expects, and I’ve dried my eyes staring into the screen of my laptop and the white pages of books I snatched from my magical library. Nothing I find suggests that vampires are capable of contracting human diseases. There are a fair few American pieces of lore that leave the _possibility_ for “illness” as the result of ‘dehydration’ and ‘cannibalism.’ However, the lore also suggests that they can gain more and less power based on the source of blood they consume. I am able to find plenty of beliefs online, but not much that actually helps assists my in diagnosing him.

 

Micah makes me stop for a proper bite to eat once we land, and I use the cab ride to text Simon about his address. When the reply comes through, I give him a time frame of approximately an hour. I figure we’ll stop for some fish and chips quick before racing our way to help Basilton. I pretend to feel sick so that we can get there sooner rather than later.

 

When we arrive I blast right past Simon, seeing that there’s blood staining along the wall and the floor. I glance into the bathroom on my way to locate the bedroom where Simon’s set up Baz. Inside there is a pile of bloodied clothes in a corner just far enough away from the wall to be safe. As we walk I am taking mental notes about the projected amount of blood loss.

 

_No less than three samples of the blood to identify specimen consumed._

“He wakes up long enough to throw up, but I don’t know how much more he’s got left.” Simon’s voice drips with defeat, and I know the feeling sits at the edge of my own mind. There’s a very real chance I cannot help remedy the problem at hand. As he tells me that he’s not sure how much blood is left to spew, I realize that Baz’s blood storage has to be more than just what he consumes.

 

Very suddenly, and angrily, it dawns on me that nobody has properly studied the anatomy of vampires. The fear of them comes from the lack of understanding about them, and my objective becomes clear to me again. My passion, though dimmed temporarily, is never absent. Once I place my notepad and pen on the bedside table I start assessing the environment.

 

Baz is in clean clothes and the room is tidy enough. I ask Simon if this is his flat, and he tells me that this is definitely out of his pay scale. Though he’s stays here often, he clarifies, that it belongs to Baz. An arrangement between him and his father, apparently, regarding the business they’ve been operating. I nod along and make a list in my head of what I’ll need…

 

_Medical kit, microscope, graphing paper, blood pressure monitor, pulse oximeter, heart monitor (though perhaps redundant), and a good amount of green tea._

“I need a station set up in here. Can you clear off his desk and put that stuff somewhere else?” I could have said this more delicately but it’s out of my mouth now. The fact of the matter is that I am going to need space to work with my equipment. This whole venture is unexplored territory. When it comes to real vampires – nobody wants to get close to them. They’re monsters in the eyes of most people. What I am doing is “dangerous” in the eyes of my magical peers. Thrill blows through my veins at record breaking speeds.

 

Before Simon moves too far, “But first I need a thermometer and a flashlight. Micah should be able to get my med kit out for you. I’ll text him everything else I need. We’ll be homebound for several days, I suspect, after that.” I don’t focus on him long enough to really see if he hesitates or not. Once I’ve said my piece I am peeling the covers away from Baz and pushing him to be flat on his back.

 

He is wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs. It is likely all Simon could manage to get him into after cleaning him off. According to him, the poor bloke was covered nearly head-to-toe in blood. A guttural groan comes out of me when I touch my belly. If Micah had seen me moving the patient on my own he’d have had a fit but I choose instead to worry about the fact that I am desperately hungry. I should have ate my fish and chips completely.

 

Time is of the essence, but I can’t forget that I’m pregnant either. I draw a deep breath and wait for Micah to return with the things I’ve sent Simon to request, and then I sit on the corner of the bed to begin texting a list of things I’m going to need.

 

With Baz being a vampire, I haven’t a clue how his anatomy works. I’ll need a _sketchbook_ in addition the supplies I am already typing out. There will be a great many discoveries to be made during this venture with the only good vampire I’ve ever known, but I’m hoping that in helping him I can open the door to more friendly vampires. Baz is honestly one of the most sincere men I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, in spite of the mean streak he had during our earliest years at Watford. If there’s any chance that he can be saved, then I think a great many more vampires can be saved too. Mothers won’t have to lose their children, fathers won’t have to abandon their children, and siblings won’t have to lose their best friends.

 

Perhaps, I think, being pregnant is making me far more emotionally motivated than I normally would have been otherwise.

 

_Portable Ultrasound Cart, IV stands, IV bags and tubes, High Resolution Microscope._

There’s very little we can’t afford with our careers, but the cost of these items will be unreasonable high to purchase them outright. I make a note that Micah may need to rent these items from a medical equipment outlet shop, if not a hospital. At some point I will need to partner with a hospital to get further information about Baz but this is not yet the time to worry of it.

 

When Micah comes in I ask him before he leaves to get me something to eat. He smiles before kissing my forehead; “Thank you for admitting you didn’t have enough when we stopped.” I did not actually admit this, but he knows me well enough to know that my vague statement is as close as he’s going to get to my admitting any wrongdoing.

 

Micah goes to the kitchen to find something for me to eat. He doesn’t come back straight away so I assume Baz keeps at little something for Simon when he visits. I cannot read the current nature of their relationship but they are still close enough to keep a refrigerator stocked. Meanwhile, I start recording whatever vitals I can get out of him.

 

The first day goes very quickly, simply because we are rushing to get the basics on Baz’s current situation is and hypothesizing what his goal is for healthier vitals. He doesn’t wake up this day. Simon sleeps in the living room so that Micah and I can sleep in his bedroom. Baz always differed from Simon in how clean they kept their personal spaces; and his room is unorganized and messy.

 

The next day I am able to get blood tests sent to labs that ask no questions. There are three different types of animal blood in the samples I sent off to be analyzed: deer, raccoons, and rats. Simon cracks his first smile at the mention of rats, likely recalling our Watford days when Baz would consume the rats to survive the school year. As I work I practice lines to ask Simon how the last decade of his life as been but I end up keeping my mouth shut. I do not feel the conversation would be helpful to either of us. Besides, he doesn’t ask about my pregnancy or my career, so he is just as focused on Baz’s well being as I am. Neither of us leave the room from the time we wake up until the time we must go to sleep. Micah does not leave the flat, so they both watched me work in silence.

 

On the third day, Baz finally starts to stir. Having made no progress the day before, I am happy to start actively badgering him with as many questions as he can handle answering. _What is your average body temperature? What bodily functions do you share with humans outside of sweating? What did you eat the entire last week? Were there any other symptoms?_ And he answers each question frankly.

 

His average body temperature is 10 degrees, Celsius I have to note since I’ve not used it after moving to America.

 

Aside from sweating he is also capable of ejaculation, as well as partially digesting food. In the end he always vomits it back up. It usually looks rotten when it comes out which is why he’s been consuming less and less of it as he gets older. There’s been no need to feign using the restroom around his peers. Many of them know he is vampire now, and none judge him for it. The information he provides is excessive but wildly helpful. I am jotting notes quickly as he goes; Simon slides his hand out to Baz. He takes and continues answering my questions.

 

Over the last week Baz has been stockpiling blood because he was hoping to travel with Simon. His head tilts over to him and even I am too weak to avoid watching their interaction. Micah steps behind me while Baz reveals; “He may have said that I was supposed to travel soon. He does not know that I was going to invite him to Africa with me. It was my plan to propose while we were gone. So I’ve been drinking from any animal that I can catch.” He goes on to say outside of the animals I confirmed through blood samples, he was also dining on beavers, rabbits, and squirrels.

 

A large number of diseases can be contracted from these animals. I’d thought I had narrowed my list but I cannot begin to make progress without first getting Baz to a hospital. I tell him that I need to pump his stomach as well as give him a blood transfusion for the consumed blood I’ll be removing. I make arrangements immediately, on the promise that no other hands touch my patient’s paperwork. I specifically share this with Simon, who mentioned this morning that taking Baz to a hospital would be risky simply because his physiology would not match the expectations of their staff.

 

I tell Simon that he and Baz may have some time alone, but that they need to keep their hands to themselves; “We can’t risk altering his physiological data in any way.”

 

The next day I am able to reserve a room in a low census department at a less-than-adored hospital that won’t notice me at the end of their hall. Everything I do with Baz is off the record because what I am doing is research – which is not entirely a lie. The only file keeping I am doing with the building is a notice of what equipment I am using and when, as well as the supplies I use that they provide. I also had to sign a waiver stating that any erroneous medical practicing on my behalf is solely my liability, but that didn’t concern me. I don’t know how much more dead I can make a vampire. Of course, I don’t know if Baz can die either. There is much left to mystery.

 

I pump Basilton’s stomach when Simon leaves the room to grab my second breakfast with Micah. He did not want to see this and offered his company. To my surprise this is the only thing I have to do in order to identify what has been causing my patient so much distress. Elated, I grab my phone and dial Micah’s number to inform him of the news.

 

“Giardia!” I gasp; “It is Giardia!”

 

Micah takes a moment, not having a medical degree, to consider if he has the knowledge he needs to respond to this information. He doesn’t, and that is okay, so I explain; “Baz contracted a parasite! I am willing to bet he contracted it eating rats in the sewer. If even one of them had contaminated water on it he could have picked it up.”

 

Micah admits that this is great news and asks what the treatment is going to be now. I inform him antibiotics should be able to handle it, but that I am unsure how Baz’s body will handle it; “I need to discuss more with Baz as to how his digestion works, but I think I’ll start with a direct shot of penicillin to his abdomen. Since his organs do not function in the same way I cannot be certain that Normal treatment will be effective. Thankfully this isn’t anything that should kill Baz, so we have more time than I may have believed when we arrived.”

 

Micah hangs up the phone knowing that I must get straight to work. Giardia can be contracted in many ways. Anyone who has come into contact with the blood he’s been vomiting could contract it, as well as anyone he’s had sex with since contracting it. I am comfortable asking these questions but I cannot help feeling as though I am delving somewhere I don’t belong when I ask; “You can pass Giardia through anal sex. I have to ask if you’ve had any sexual partners who you may need to contact about treatment.”

 

Baz laughs; “Nobody would have gotten Giardia from me, nor I from anyone else. I’m still a virgin, Bunce.”

 

“I still have to test Simon, you know, since it’s been sitting in your blood in your stomach there’s a chance he got it when cleaning you up.” Baz being a virgin is surprising simply because of the passes he used to make at Simon. He was always more comfortable with his sexuality. Perhaps it was never his sexuality that he was comfortable with so much as his romantic attraction to Simon. I won’t ask _that_ because it’s not my place, nor is it relevant.

 

When Simon returns I tell them that need a stool sample from him to be sure he doesn’t have Giardia either. Micah insists that we are tested too, because we’ve been handling Basilton’s vomit since arriving, so I submit to his concerns. As a pregnant woman, treatment me would be very difficult and potentially detrimental to the baby. I am thankful when our tests come back clear, though Simon’s does not.

 

He hasn’t exhibited any symptoms, so treatment should be swift for him. I prescribe antibiotics and send Micah to pick them up for both Simon and Basilton. Meanwhile, I pull Simon into the hall and place a hand on his shoulder; “Giardia can be spread multiple ways.”

 

“I’m a virgin too,” Simon smiles, “Baz said you’d ask me.”

 

“You’ve been together ten years? And you haven’t once considered having sex with each other? Or other people?” I know I am out of line to say this out loud. Sexuality is something I’ve come to see very broadly. Someone else’s sexuality and sexual activity isn’t my business beyond a medical standpoint. If it isn’t relevant to treatment then I don’t ask for details. I have overstepped and when I cover my mouth it seems Simon knows I feel guilty for just bursting out my personal thoughts.

 

“Our relationship is complicated. We weren’t together for a long time. Right now we’re just getting back into the swing of being a couple,” he pauses to take a breath, “And if he hadn’t been sick I would have turned down that proposal. I’ve turned him down before too.”

 

I nod understandingly. For all the comfort that Baz had about himself and his future with Simon, unfortunately Simon himself hadn’t shared in that same confidence. Horrifying images of the pair of them alone in London fill my mind. Baz trying to be a vampire with no friends to support him, only his work to fill his days; and Simon bloody Snow trying to be good at something he doesn’t understand and making it work. They are more capable than I give them credit for because my idea of them is dated. Still, I am sad for the strife I can only guess they have faced these ten long years.

 

I drop my hand down his arm and hold his wrist; “You said before he was sick you would have turned him down. Do you feel the same now?”

 

Simon smiles; “His father called this morning to ask why Baz hadn’t shown up for their meeting over tea. I explained I was too caught up to call him about the turn of events.” Tears begin welling up in his eyes. Instinctively I roll onto my toes and give him a hug. This has been a long week for him, but only one of many long weeks in his life. Simon bloody Snow, a hero by default for suffering and moving through life with that goofy grin of his as if every day is a treasure.

 

“I know.” I say to him.

 

It is three grueling days of trial and error before Baz is finally cleared of the Giardia parasite. I inform him that trips to Africa should be halted for the time being, and that maybe even a vacation for a couple of months would be wise. I also broach the topic of deeper research into the functions of his body. I finally reveal that I want to prepare a thesis that vampire bodies are not nearly as dead as previously believed, and that I would hope in doing this to pioneer equal rights for vampires. Normals have no place to know, but with vampires potentially having the ability to reproduce, then discrimination against them among those with magic is obscene. If they can get sick, then they are not so different from the rest of humankind after all.

 

Baz agrees to both the research and the vacation. Simon lifts his hand to ruffle the curls on his head that he hasn’t brushed in nearly a week, I suspect, in an effort to hide his grin. I tell them to go on ahead without Micah and I, as we have to clean out the room and submit the final documents regarding supplies we’ve used. When they leave I turn to Micah and smile; “When I went for lunch yesterday, I did not go for lunch.”

 

Micah’s eyes widen in tired defeat. Can he not trust me to do anything outside of my work responsibilities? I am happy to surprise him, though, with something I know he is not expecting; “Do you ever take a break?”

 

“Sometimes I remember that I’m a wife,” I begin, “And a soon-to-be mom.”

 

Micah tilts his head, unsure where it is I am taking this conversation; “I went for an ultrasound yesterday since we missed the one I had scheduled in America.”

 

With understanding his brows shoot nearly off his forehead; “We are going to have a little girl.”

 

Tears are now spilling from his eyes. I feel that I have seen too many people crying so I don’t hold anything back from him for even a second longer; “And a little boy.”

 

“Twins?” He breathes in surprise.

 

I have known all along that I am having twins, and so did Vanessa. I begged her, and her staff, to keep it secret. Micah was already overbearing just knowing I was pregnant. Vanessa was reluctant but agreed that she could pull to strings to help me keep it secret until I was ready to tell him. I am calm now that he knows, and I am at peace with the fact that I’ll probably be put on bed rest before I make it to seven months. Thankfully, being able to do research on Baz will give me something to do during my last months of pregnancy, and then we can travel to London a few months after they are born during my maternity leave to work further. I’ll make my own hours. Motherhood cements itself inside of me. I’ve never felt so ready for a new stage of my life.

 

“I can’t believe I ever cared about late nights spent apart, slurred words and incoherent thoughts, and anything else that made our relationship feel like a failure,” Micah speaks with clarity, “I don’t care about any of it now. We’ve found our own version of happiness.” On that note I push him back into the hospital room, reminding him that as parents we won’t have time for all this romantic stuff until we’ve finished cleaning the house. We laugh, but we do our job just as we should because that’s _exactly_ the kind of people we are, and how we’ll always be.

 

**_“Cause I have hella feelings for you,_ **

**_I act like I don’t fuckign care,_ **

**_Like they ain’t even there._ **

**_Cause I have hella feelings for you,_ **

**_I act like I don’t fucking care,_ **

**_Cause I’m so fucking sacred.”_ **

**_\--Simon_ **

 

Over the last year, I’ve moved all of my things back to Baz’s house. Not only that, but since Penny’s thesis being presented to the Coven, I’ve been spending more time at home working with her on the research she’s doing on vampires. It gives me something somewhat more meaningful to do with my time. It also allows me to travel with Baz more often than when I was working each day at the shop. I am still the owner, but I’ve hired a manager and two part-time associates to run the business while I go on about my life with Baz. It works well enough, and there’s been not one question about our being a couple since Baz was sick.

 

Unfortunately, I’ve not been able to open myself completely to the Baz. He is the love my life, but my fear of my sexuality has morphed into something potentially more damaging: fear of inadequacy. I am constantly questioning if I am enough for him, if I can give him everything that he deserves from someone he loves. For weeks this thought has been rumbling at the back of my mind. Baz mentioned getting married a couple of months ago and that is no longer a question to me. I’ll marry him, because I won’t risk another eleven years passing where I don’t enjoy the full potential of my relationship with him.

 

Today is my twenty-eighth birthday and I look my age. I’ve grown into my body evenly, though I’m still packing some extra ‘cushion’ from the scones I definitely eat way too often. I look older in my body and in my face, which has chiseled out and tightened. Lately I’ve taken to letting my facial hair poke out which only ages me. Standing in front of this mirror forces me to admit that soon Baz will look much younger than me.

 

Penny’s early studies suggest that the rate of aging in a vampire is one-one millionth of a human’s. That is after they finish progressing through puberty, I suppose, because Baz grew normally otherwise. There’s more to be researched about the aging, but it is not any less possible that before Baz would ever look my age again, I would have lived and died over a thousand times. It makes think that even if we married, it would only be ten or twenty years before he would be mistaken for my son, and thirty before he would look like my grandson.

 

So even though I’ve told Baz that I will happily marry him someday, I also tell him that there’s something I need to work out for my own first. He always asks what but I deny sharing it with him. I see the heartbreak in his face – his youthful yet dignified features filled with _so much_ _future_. I am enraged by my jealousy. My jealousy is overshadowed by the defeat I feel when I come to the conclusion that to marry Baz I must commit to a very specific path, and that he must agree with that path in order for us to keep our relationship alive. We must embrace the same future, or we must destroy the life we have built together.

 

All that is left is to propose my idea to him.

 

Should I burn every bridge I’ve built with him at my side…

 

…Or should I have him turn me?

 

In the next room Baz is unpacking from our latest trip to Russia, and I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask him if he would be willing to turn me. If he refuses, I fear that he will be making my decision for me. I’ve been scared to fucking death that he won’t be willing to turn me, that he won’t be willing to hear what I have to say, and he won’t be willing to see reason.

 

I mean, though I say I am undecided, I really do know what I want in my heart.

 

I want Baz _no matter the cost_.

 

He calls out to me, asking if I fell into the toilet or something. As a last ditch effort to calm my beating heart and racing mind, I splash cold water onto my face. The instant I walk into our _shared_ bedroom I see that he’s laid a box in the middle of the bed. A _ring_ box. If I’ve come to know anything as truth in my adult life, it is that _timing is everything._ Something about our timing has never been just right. So seeing that his mind is very much still on getting married at the same time mine is, well, it gives me a lot of hope for the way this conversation might end.

 

“Simon…” I **hear** his voice drop. I see his hands trembling. I **smell** his refreshed cologne. I **taste** the his last kiss lingering on my lips, minty from the gum he makes a point of chewing to hide the flavor of blood in his breath. I **feel** the stillness of the room.

 

I **hear** the question before it leaves my mouth. I **see** his gaze narrow and his brows wrinkle. I **smell** my own perspiration when I left my arm to touch his shoulder. I **taste** cold saliva in my mouth as my nerves begin to fill every open space in my body. I **feel** hesitation from both of us as I interrupt him; “What will you do when I die?”

 

“I don’t know.” Baz whispers, “But I would rather have you while I can.”

 

“What if you never had to lose me?”

            “You can’t ask that of me.”

                        “You can’t marry me if you don’t consider it.”

 

Our statements came rapidly, without breaths or details to notice in between. We are both gasping for air, proximity somehow closing without us even realizing it. Not even a minute later and we are nose-to-nose with stress apparent on our faces.

 

“The only way this works is if you turn me, Pitch, and we both know it.” Baz responds better to distress in a business setting. I hope by changing my tone and my presentation that he thinks clearly. I desperately need him to see my side and I cannot figure any other way to effectively accomplish this goal.

 

Baz swings his hands into mine, lacing his fingers around mine. We stand this way longer than I really care to know but I decide to pull Baz onto the bed with me. The ring box tumbles closer to us and I act first again by pulling it nearer and opening it. Inside is a simple band with a single gem; “It is onyx. Mine is a ruby.” Black for his hair, and red for mine – small pieces of the other with us at all times. For a second I mock disgust at how romantic Baz can be, but I replace my expression quickly with one that reflects the deep love I have for him.

 

“You realize how ‘teenage vampire novel’ this conversation is, right?” Baz groans. Penny, in her early days in America, learned just how romanticized the teenage vampire romance scene used to be back then. Though the hype has died down, the whole ‘turn me to love me forever’ concept is one dimensional and petty. I feel as pathetic as I should, but only because I know what a stupid trope it actually is in the grand scheme of things. Not because it paints me as clingy and desperate. (I am).

 

Baz throws himself to the back of the bed, putting distance between us. He shares how he never had it in his plan to take my humanity away from me. Aside from that, some of his favorite things about me are that I love to eat sweets. He loves the way I lose my breath when I’ve been too active for too long, because at my heart was never a footballer. He loves that I get so tired I can fall asleep anywhere, and that I have a sense of urgency about important experiences. He likes that my appearance changes with each year, not just because it reminds him how mortal and precious I am, but because I become attractive in a new way slowly in front of his eyes. All of his adorable comments expressing his love for me as a human are great, but I don’t lose sight of my goal.

 

“Have you considered it from my perspective,” I choke on my tears as plead for him to see that what he enjoys about me has a dark side. He will never tire of travelling, he will never tire of work, and he will never have to worry about missed opportunities because he’s got centuries ahead of him. His good looks will never fade, his body will most likely never fail, and the world he knows is unending.

 

So while his fear of taking something from me is keeping him from agreeing to my terms, my fear of him losing me is keeping me from agreeing to his terms. We must find a compromise or we will be forced to pursue different lives. The repetition of this in my mind has me going mad. I choose to replay it regardless.

 

I don’t know what I’m thinking…

 

But I bring all of my body onto the bed, balancing on my knees as I scoot closer to him. Baz is sitting there, eyes bloodshot, staring down at his hands. Even though I am closing the gap between us he doesn’t take a peak. Frustration boils beneath the surface but not in the way that makes sense to me. As partners that are disagreeing, I _should_ be angry that he isn’t willing to meet me in the middle in some way.

 

Instead, I feel frustrated about something else. A feeling that I’ve never experienced is causing my body to tingle in the deepest tissues of my skin. I use my hands reach out and grab the headboard, which keeps me balanced as I’m lifting myself over his lap. Once I am sitting on him my chest hitches with hesitation each time I gulp a breath back, but I do not dislike the feeling. This is hesitation is not one of distaste. This is something brand new to me.

 

I am trembling with each movement, even blinking. Worry that I’ve been missing out on an entire aspect of our relationship captures me, motivates me. For once, the proximity I have to him isn’t enough. I drop my chin, lower my gaze to his mouth, and then start kissing him at his exposed collarbone to his chin; “I would age, and in an instant you would have to pretend to be my son.”

 

I shift my weight to put a hand on his thigh, tapping a nonsensical beat; “Not long after that you would pretend to be my grandchild.”

 

Eagerly I drop a peck just below his ear and whisper; “Before you know it you’re, my great-grandchild.”

 

Baz is not persuaded by my passion, and he pulls away from me. I grab his chin and pull his eyes to meet mine. Point blank I say; “You will go from my enemy, to my best friend, to my boyfriend, to my lover, to my caretaker, to my grave keeper.”

 

“Simon, it is _not_ that simple.” Baz whispers, his breath slipping into my mouth when I level myself to his face. Sharing his air is a something of a privilege but something deep in me needs to share _more_ with him. He keeps repeats himself between breaths as I’m dipping down to meet his lips with mine; “Simon, it’s _not_ that simple.”

 

During the pause of our dancing tongues, we manage something reminiscent of a conversation.

 

_I can’t live without you._

_I won’t watch you die._

_I love you just like this._

_I want more than eighty years._

_Anything is enough._

_Enough is never enough._

Time moves differently while we slowly undress one another, almost unaware of what we are doing with our bodies because of the words we’re saying. Chests heaving in strain for oxygen, limbs shuddering out of pure anticipation, and eyes unblinking out of fear of missing something important. It is only when he’s laying naked atop of me that I realize that while I am never “ready” for what I share with him, my timing with Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is finally **_right._**

 

I think the adrenaline of being unprepared for how much I want to be with him is thrilling in a frightful sort of way. I’m so fucking scared, but not of him. No, I’m scared of what I’ll become from needing him in this way. Once I have the whole of him – _will I ever be able to exist without him?_

 

“I’ll marry you.” I decide, “Regardless.”

 

“Simon.” This is all he has to say. It’s all I need to hear. For only a few seconds more we are two separate individuals, entities merely inhabiting the same space on the planet. Deeply intimate pleasure brings us together. We become one soul and I would not have it any other way.

 

 

 

 

 

**_“I’m only a fool for you,_ **

**_And maybe you’re too good for me,_ **

**_I’m only a good for you,_ **

**_But I don’t fucking care, at all.”_ **

**_\--Baz_ **

 

Time changes everything, that’s what my father said growing up. At just five years old he told me I wasn’t like other kids. I had a terrible burden given to me before I started primary school. So I came to believe this as truth. Time helped me heal from the loss of a mother I never truly knew; time taught me to read, write, play sport; time strengthened my magic and made me strong.

 

No matter how much time moved, though, I was still a vampire. My kind was not welcomed in our community. I had him telling me I was not a monster while the school taught us what terrible creatures vampires are supposed to be. As much as I wanted to fight the authorities insisting that no decent vampire has ever existed, that I was rightfully an abomination, I kept my mouth shut. Dispersing the truth about myself was not safe. Still, no matter how silent I remained, I was different. Other kids ate scones; I drank blood. Other kids wanted seconds on desert; I threw up my dinner in the bathrooms. Other kids smiled for their pictures “with teeth,” but I could handle little more than a lazy smirk because of my fangs.

 

Time changed many things, but it didn’t seem to be changing me.

 

Around sixteen, my growth stopped almost completely. Small features of my mine matured over the years, but I still easily look ten years younger than Simon. Something else that occurred to me at sixteen was that I would never understand my kind, my body. Thankfully, Doctor Bunce did extensive research during her life to answer questions about my anatomy that I never could have thought to ask. Thanks to Simon’s best friend, Penny, I have been lucky to see a time where vampires _are_ seen as equals. Vampire Rights were her claim to fame, and her children carried on the legacy.

 

I am forever grateful for the deeds written beneath her heading in the new history books detailing her accomplishments. There is a name that they do not share, though, one that almost absolutely motivated her to be the best woman she could possibly be during her lifetime: Simon Snow Salisbury. There is much in this world that could not have been were it not for his existence, for his friendship, and for his love. While she was alive, she reminded me briefly why it is I once believed that time changes _everything_.

 

Simon and I got married as soon as my father told me that the Coven was going to invite Penny to be the next Mage at Watford. Though her mother was not interested in retiring, they felt that Penelope set a good standard for what the new generation needed in a leader. Since then, the Bunce family line has been ushering in the next generation of sorcerers.

 

Penelope’s twins were the top two students in their classes, with their two younger sisters following in perfect stride. Her son took over for her, and then the sisters took turns at the head of Watford. Each of her children had their own kids that attended Watford. Generation after generation of Bunce family members became the Mage at Watford, and the Coven started calling it the Bunce Legacy.

 

Although, today they speak about the end of it, as Genevieve Bunce announces her retirement.

 

Before Penny passed, she founded an orphanage for vampires. Even if they do not have magic, they stay there and learn how to integrate themselves into the world in a healthy way. However, a surprising number of them _do_ have magic. Once they are old enough to attend Watford, all they must do to cover the cost of their year-round living arrangements is work part-time jobs around the campus beginning in their fourth year. For just over a hundred years this program has been a massive success.

 

Genevieve spent much of her free time at the orphanage, expanding its services and creating a stronger presence of its existence in the world of magic. All of the work that she did kept her from having a family – which she publically did not want. She is known for famously stating; “I do not need a family of my own when I have two families at the orphanage and Watford.”

 

Another thing about today is special; I woke up to an empty bed. That’s not really special, of course, because Simon usually wakes up to go out onto the farm. For years the goats were our only children to tend, and it is not something I really like to participate in personally. For years I spent a great deal of my free time updating our home, which used to belong to Ebb.

 

Yes, we live on the Watford campus. If it weren’t Simon’s idea, I would have thought that he never would want to return here. The painful reminder that he doesn’t have magic within walking distance at all times. And yet, when we felt our lives reach a standstill after one hundred and fifty years together, the only thing he could find solace in was being close to the only person that ever resembled a parent to him: Ebeneza “Ebb” Petty.

 

After I turned Simon, we pushed our physical limits frequently. There’s not a country we haven’t been, there’s not a monument we haven’t seen, there’s not a sight we haven’t seen, there’s not a capitol we haven’t been. Eventually, when my father passed away, we stopped travelling as much and focused on operating the Grimm-Pitch Museum for Magical Artifacts. Before long, magic schools from all over the world were visiting on field trips. It garnered an exchange program between Watford and other schools of magic internationally. Before long it became a monster of a business that was larger than my father could have ever imagined. I am still the owner of the museum, and I do still have to travel into London two or three times a week to verify the goings-on in person. All of travelling had taken Simon from his career as a business owner, and it ultimately left Simon with little to do with his time when were more settled in London.

 

He had sold his bookshop only a couple of years after our marriage to the manager he’d hired, and then he opened a café. When he sold the café he tried his hand at gardening and landscaping. He did this for a long time and built up a service that he eventually sold off to one of his employees after something like forty years. He took several years away from the work force to take online classes about a variety of subjects. To this day, I don’t understand why he needed to learn how to write music and how to draw anime, but during the winter months when the goats are in the barn he spends an unhealthy amount of time online writing songs and creating “fan art” for shows he watches. Sometimes he creates small comics depicting the shenanigans of our youth.

 

About ten years ago, though, Simon came home from the kitchens. Even though he is a vampire now, his taste for cherry scones is not diminished in any way. It doesn’t matter that in four or five hours he’ll be retching in the bathroom, the comforting and familiar taste of them keeps him motivated and energized. I love him too much to tell him that he’s a special breed of insane for putting himself through that kind of pain. Anyway, he came home from the kitchen with more than a batch of scones.

 

He came back with a little girl that was eerily what I imagine our child would look like, were it possible for us to have a child with both of our genetics. She has bronze curls against porcelain skin, freckles and a long face. Her eyes are icy and dignified and she’s dressed in a pristine dress as red as the blood I drink.

 

And she drinks, as I quickly found out. The first thing I learned about her is that she liked wearing red so that if she made a mess while drinking nobody would know. Simon didn’t lead off with the information that she’s a vampire. I eyeballed the little girl and then Simon; “Brought back more than a cherry scone, Snow.” I was gruff that day because we’d been up late arguing about the type of fence we want to install on the property. We were unable to reach a compromise. I was a bit tired and stressed.

 

“Her name is Madeline. She’s going to start at Watford this year.” Simon disappeared when he’d begun speaking, and when he came back into my vision he was holding a couple of suitcases and a large manila envelope. Before I can even speak he says; “She’s our daughter.”

 

I was not interested in fighting Simon, and I wouldn’t have really disagreed with him on this matter anyway. My father always wanted for me the chance to be a father too. All I remember now is that I shrugged my shoulders; “At least this one’s not a goat.”

 

There was no further conversation about it. We adopted Madeline, who was left at the orphanage with no note or warning. The only thing known about her was that she was born a vampire, which is not all that uncommon anymore. During her primary education she showed great promise, but for one reason or another she simply was never adopted. When she was invited to Watford, due to her – erm – _aggressive sarcasm_ , there were already talks about waiving the part-time work required of most children coming from the orphanage.

 

For this reason alone, Madeline was the perfect daughter for us.

 

And with the announcement of Genevieve’s retirement also comes the announcement of Madeline Grimm-Pitch Salisbury as the next Mage of Watford. So today Simon is not in the bed next to me because he’s have a bit of a mental breakdown in the closet.

 

“WHAT DO I WEAR? I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING NICE!” Simon shouts when he hears the faint creaking of our mattress. With any luck, Madeline has already left for the morning to prepare for the announcement to be made at the year-end celebration.

 

“Just wear your khakis and a button-up, Simon. There’s no need to be dramatic.” Though he looks as young as the day I turned him, he’s as melodramatic as three-hundred-and-thirty-year-old man upset about the neighbors messing his lawn.

 

“KHAKIS ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR OUR DAUGHTER’S BIG DAY!” Simon cries in response. At some point, a sane person might have lost their patience with him years ago. I am no such thing, though.

 

I join Simon inside, _yes inside_ , of the closet. He turns and frowns, and I mock him by frowning as well. My fangs clip the inside of my lip and I start laughing; “Madeline is not going to care what we look like. She told me herself that she’s probably going to wearing a shirt and jeans because the students won’t be wearing their uniforms. I wouldn’t be surprised if she legitimately shows up in a bikini and shorts. Sprinklers, pools, and water wars going on – why would she dress up for that?”

 

“She should care a bit more, don’t you think?” Simon groans, “She is the _first vampire Mage!_ She ought to be more concerned about making a good first impression!”

 

“SIMON!” I raise my voice in protest, “Madeline went to school with some of these kids! She’s only been out of Watford for two years! Besides, don’t you think her sense of humor might be a bit more of a problem than her wardrobe?”

 

Simon grunts.

 

And those memories of my father saying that “time changes everything” comes back to me. Three centuries have changed me; they have changed Simon, the world, Watford, and more. Even just five years have changed Madeline from an uptight scholar, to an inquisitive and exciting one. By some miracle, Simon and I instilled our best qualities into a child that needed someone to love her.

 

Though it is not wrong that time is capable of bringing about change, there is one thing that has not changed at all.

 

“Let’s just wear jeans, Snow. We can wear jeans and t-shirts. You wear green and I’ll wear purple.” I know that Madeline won’t be wearing anything formal. I don’t just know this because she’s my daughter and because she doesn’t care about those sorts of things, but I also helped her unpack her bags when she came to stay with us. There wasn’t a single formal dress or suit anywhere in her wardrobe.

 

“I always liked the way you look in jeans…” Simon makes a show of looking me up and down, bouncing his eyebrows in an animated fashion. I sigh softly, thinking about how he’s never been good at flirting. He is either too obscure or, as with this instance, far too obvious. I don’t mind, though, because I am feeling quite the same.

 

So time doesn’t change _everything_ , but

 

 

 

**I don’t fucking care.**

_I will always love Simon Snow._

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> (1) When writing Penny's section of the story I was frustrated by the lack of information I actually had available about the vampire anatomy. If you go to Tumblr and look for ficsforfangirls - I will have a companion image for that part that sort of shows what I was thinking for the anatomy of a vampire. I am by no means promoting or linking you to my page. My only objective is to let you know that I have this available if you're interested in seeing that reference I used when original drafting this piece. Much of it doesn't get used for this story so it is not pertinent but I think it's interesting. But I would, wouldn't I, seeing as I made it.
> 
> (2) I have been working on this for about just under three months. I really put a lot of heart and soul into this story. I know in publishing it online for others to read that there's a decent chance that I'm going to get a lot of hate for the way I've written Simon and Baz, and especially Agatha. My only real goal in writing this piece was to show the complexity of being in a relationship, especially with someone who is not fully aware or at peace with their sexuality. I also wanted to show the importance of not becoming physical in a relationship no matter your sexuality until you feel safe and ready.
> 
> (3) As always, I want to thank you for reading. This was not short in any way, so you are amazing simply for reaching the end. I hope that you found something positive in my work and that you had a good time reading. Reading what I've written is always enough, but I always love your feedback and comments! Good luck & Carry On!


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